Crossing Lines
by plutoplex
Summary: Taking an aging potion was Fred and George Weasley's backup plan for getting past Dumbledore's age line in GoF. Their initial idea, though... Well, finding themselves 18 years in the past was not part of the plan. Marauders era. No bashing.
1. Chapter 1: Sorting Things Out

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **A/N:** This fic will be lighter than _Darkness Visible._ Chapters will be longer, but the fic itself will be shorter. It will be focused on the twins, with the Marauders and Snape as secondary characters.

 **Chapter 1: Sorting Things Out**

\- October 30, 1994 –

"I got the sneezewort!" George shouted excitedly, entering the sixth-year boys' dormitory.

Fred cheered. "Knew you could do it!" he said, beaming at his twin. "Any trouble getting in?"

"Nah," George said. He took out his wand and began undoing the transfigurations he and Fred had made to disguise him. "No one questioned seeing a Slytherin in the dungeons, or heading to Snape's office." He gestured at the "borrowed" uniform he was wearing. The house elves had been only too happy to help two of their favorite students, provided that they promise to return the uniform before laundry day.

"Told you," Fred said smugly. "Now all we need to do is add it, and then keep the potion stable while it matures. Then pour this little beauty on the age line –"

" – and then no more age line," George finished happily, handing Fred the liberated ingredient. After measuring carefully, he added it to the simmering potion.

The door to their dormitory burst open, and Lee Jordan ran in, breathing heavily. "Hey," he panted, "you'll never believe what happened! Cormac just tried to snog Katie!"

"What?" George whipped around to stare at Lee. "You're kidding!"

"No! Honest to goodness," Lee said.

"What'd she do?" Fred asked, laughing.

"Well –"

The potion exploded.

* * *

"Good evening, gentlemen," a familiar voice said. Fred opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed in the Hogwarts Infirmary. George lay on the bed across from him, blinking blearily. Headmaster Dumbledore stood at the other side of the room, looking unusually grave.

"What – what happened?" Fred asked. "Where's Lee?"

"I was rather hoping you could tell me," Dumbledore replied. "I admit, I was not expecting to see two unfamiliar students in Gryffindor tower two days before the start of term. Nor do I believe I know anyone with that name."

"Unfamiliar?" George asked, incredulous. "He's the quidditch commentator. How can you not know him? Or us?"

Dumbledore frowned. "The quidditch commentator is Miss Elsbeth Goldstein. And I am afraid that I have not had the pleasure of meeting either of you young men before now."

Fred started to laugh. "Good one, sir," he said, chuckling. "You almost had us believing you."

"But given the number of times –"

"– we've been sent to your office –"

"– we know you'd never forget us!"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I admit, you two bear an uncanny resemblance to the Prewett twins, who graduated several years ago and were frequent visitors to my office. However, I have already taken the liberty of consulting with them, and they assure me that they have nothing to do with your mysterious appearance. For once, I am inclined to believe them."

Fred and George exchanged worried glances. Uncles Fabian and Gideon Prewett had died only a few days before they had been born. They certainly had not graduated _several_ years ago. Twenty years ago, maybe. Not several. "Headmaster, um, what year is it?" George asked.

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "You claim to be from another time?" he asked.

The twins shrugged in unison. "That would depend on what year it is," Fred said.

"It's 1994 for us," George added.

The headmaster frowned. "I see," he said. "Would you mind if I confirmed that?" he asked.

Fred shrugged. "Sure."

Dumbledore stared into his eyes. Fred suddenly felt an urge to blink, but found that he could not. After what felt like several minutes, Dumbledore turned aside. "My apologies, my boys. It appears that you have indeed travelled through time. The _current_ date is August 30, 1976."

Fred and George choked. They had not even been born yet. _Percy_ had barely been born. He would only be eight days old. Fred shook his head in disbelief. He could not imagine Percy the Prat as a squalling infant. He glanced at George, and then they turned back to the headmaster. "How can we –"

" – get back?"

Dumbledore shrugged, blue eyes twinkling. "Time does not like to be meddled with, and often finds a way to restore equilibrium on its own. I suspect – although, alas, I cannot be certain – that your visit to us here will only be a temporary one. I shall need to run some tests to be positive, but I would imagine that your predicament should resolve itself."

Well, that was a relief, at least. Not that being back in the pas would necessarily be such a bad thing. Fred was fairly certain that he and George could remember enough about what happened in 1976 to earn a decent amount of gold. Ludo Bagman got his start as beater for the Wimbourne Wasps that year, didn't he? It would only be fair that they earn _something_ from his success, given how he cheated them after the World Cup.

Fred suddenly felt guilty. There were better things – far better things – to use their knowledge on. _Mum's brothers._ "Sir, could you make sure that the Prewett twins stay away from Diagon Alley on March 30, 1978?" George nodded vigorously.

Dumbledore's blue eyes sparkled, but his tone was somber as he said, "Your thoughts do you credit, my boy, but the past cannot – should not – be changed. Terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time." He sighed, looking suddenly old and weary. "Terrible things," he repeated. "Often, things worse than that which the wizard tried to prevent. I am certain you know many things that I would like to know, especially given the current political climate." _You-Know-Who_ , Fred thought. "But time has a way of seeking vengeance. If, for instance, I acted to save your uncles – yes, I deduced the relation – time might instead redirect itself to find another target, a target even closer to your hearts."

"You've tried changing things before," George accused.

Dumbledore nodded. "And lost far more the second time. I would not see anyone else fall into that trap."

Fred gulped. He glanced again at George, who nodded. They would keep their knowledge a secret. Pranks were one thing. Playing with people's lives was something else entirely.

Dumbledore clapped his hands, breaking the somber silence that had fallen. "Well, now that that is settled, we will need some identities for you two gentlemen."

"I'm G-" Fred began, but Dumbledore held up a hand, interrupting him.

"I do not wish to know. Indeed, I think it extremely dangerous if I _do_ know, given that I am, apparently, still the headmaster when you, ah, disappeared. The less information I have, the less ability I shall have to affect the timeline, even unintentionally. Furthermore, the less others know, the safer we shall be.

"Now, I do believe that you," he nodded at Fred, "would make an excellent Feodor Vassilyev." Nodding at George, he continued, "Whereas you seem more like a Gustav." He sighed. "My first instinct is to isolate you from others for the integrity of our timeline."

"No!" Fred shouted, appalled.

"You can't do that!" George agreed.

Dumbledore raised a quieting hand. "As I said, that is my first instinct. However, I agree that – given that I cannot be certain how long you shall remain trapped in this time – extended confinement would only be cruel. Although this is against my better judgment, you do appear to be students and this is a school. I will allow you both to attend classes, but I wish to impress upon you the importance of not trying to change events. Even if – " His voice faltered momentarily, and then he continued, "Even if the life of someone you know and love is threatened." He sighed. "Be warned that I will not hesitate to reconsider should I feel that you are a danger to the timeline."

 _Who did Dumbledore lose?_ Fred wondered.

"Yes, sir," George said seriously.

Dumbledore smiled. "Excellent. In that case, which classes are you taking? I would recommend Divination for the pair of you – something that I do not often say – as it will provide a ready excuse should you accidentally refer to something that has yet to take place. And which year are you in?"

"Sixth," Fred said. "And we're taking Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense."

"And Divination," George added.

"Excellent," Dumbledore said again. "I'll ensure that both of you have the necessary supplies." He paused. "And, I think, it might be wise to alter your appearance somewhat. You do both greatly resemble the Prewett twins."

* * *

\- September 1, 1976 –

Albus beamed and clapped as each of the new first year students was Sorted. Finally, "Yeats, Sinead" was sent to Ravenclaw. He rose from his throne-like chair at the center of the staff table. "And now, I am delighted to announce the arrival of two transfer students, Feodor and Gustav Vassilyev. They will be joining the sixth year class. I hope each and every one of you will make them feel welcome. Professor McGonagall, if you would please place the Sorting Hat on them?"

Feodor stepped forward first, grinning and bowing at each of the various tables. Even with non-descript brown hair, thicker eyebrows, and sharper cheekbones, Albus could see the Prewett twins in every line of his movement.

 _I wonder if I could . . . ._ Albus forced himself away from that train of thought. All those years ago, he had gone back a few hours to try and save Aberforth's legs, lost when Ariana's accidental magic had lashed out. He had succeeded, but a mere hour later, Aberforth and Gellert had gotten into their terrible argument, and Ariana – poor, sweet, innocent Ariana – had ended up dead. Never again would he risk meddling with time.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat shouted after barely a few seconds on Feodor's head. The young man removed the Hat with a flourish, bowing deeply to Minerva as he did so, and then jauntily made his way to the laughing, applauding Gryffindor table.

Minerva called Gustav's name. He blew kisses to the crowd as he approached the Hat. Minerva closed her eyes as if fortifying herself for a long year, and then placed it on his head.

There was a long, long pause. At last, the Hat shouted, "SLYTHERIN!" Albus sighed slightly in relief. The Hat had initially argued against automatically re-Sorting the two boys in their original Houses, saying that people could change over time. Although Albus certainly agreed, he worried that placing the two of them together would risk letting more information about the future slip out than if they were separated. In his experience, people were more likely to discuss sensitive information in the supposed privacy of the dorms than elsewhere in the castle, and Albus was concerned that their roommates might overhear something that they should not. _Besides, judging by their uniforms, they had been Sorted into different Houses once before._

From the Gryffindor table, Feodor nearly fell off the bench in shock. "What?" he shouted, sounding horrified. Albus felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. _Was Gustav not a Slytherin before? But he was wearing a Slytherin uniform!_

Gustav handed the Hat back to Minerva, and then stuck his tongue out at his twin and winked. He stuck his nose in the air in an over-the-top parody of snootiness and strolled lazily to the Slytherin table.

* * *

 _"_ _Well, you're about as easy to Sort as it gets, just like your twin. Gryffindor through and through, aren't you? You were one before, and you're one still,"_ the Sorting Hat said in George's mind.

 _"_ _Good to know,"_ George thought. _"Why haven't you called it out, then?"_

 _"_ _Well, I would normally. But the headmaster really wants to separate you two. He's worried you'll talk about your little time travel adventure in the dorms, where prying ears will hear. Maybe you will, maybe you won't. But I thought I'd give you the option at least. You can go to Gryffindor, which is where you belong, personality-wise. Or I can put you in Slytherin, which is where he thinks you should go."_

 _"_ _What?"_ George asked, horrified. _How could Dumbledore possibly think I belong there? He's supposed to know everything!_

 _"_ _No one knows everything, not even sentient hats that can read every thought in your head."_ George flushed slightly. He had not meant to direct that last thought to the Hat. _"And besides, you_ were _wearing a Slytherin uniform when you showed up here. It's not like he was pulling the idea out of nowhere. Now, you – and your twin – are, admittedly, clever and ambitious – that joke shop idea is a good dream, very fitting – but, frankly, you are so overwhelmingly a Gryffindor that I wouldn't normally even consider offering you an alternative if the headmaster hadn't insisted._

 _"_ _So, what'll it be? I'm giving you the choice because I was told to, but it's_ always _the student's choice. Not their family's, and not the school's."_

George considered for a moment, and then smiled. It would be the greatest prank _ever_.

"SLYTHERIN!" the Hat shouted to the Hall. George caught Fred's eye as he removed the Hat from his head. His twin looked flabbergasted. George stuck his tongue out at him and winked. Fred blinked, and then smiled back with a small nod before feigning absolute horror.

 _Oh, yes. This will be fun._

* * *

Fred could not _believe_ the amazing prank George had managed to pull. He wished his twin had consulted him before doing it. He would have liked a chance to scope out the Slytherin dorms. Even going to Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff might be fun, given that it was just going to be a temporary arrangement. _Maybe it was a spur of the moment thing. Wish I'd thought of it._ He shrugged. _Oh, well._

Dumbledore said a few words, and then food appeared on the House tables. Fred grabbed a bit of everything. Raising his glass of pumpkin juice, he toasted George, who returned the salute with a grin.

"So, Feodor, was it?" a pretty, dark-haired girl next to him asked.

"My fame precedes me!" he exclaimed, putting a hand to his forehead in mock surprise. A few of the students nearby chuckled.

"Ooh, he's a prankster if ever I saw one!" a handsome teenager with thick, wavy black hair called from down the table. "Don't you think so, Prongs?"

 _Prongs?_ Fred turned his head to stare at the boy who had spoken. He looked vaguely familiar, but Fred could not place where. The boy next to him, though . . . . Fred nearly spat out his pumpkin juice in surprise. The boy looked almost exactly like Harry Potter. The boy was older, and there was no lightning-shaped scar, and his eyes were hazel, not green. But even so . . . . And he was Prongs? Fred wondered if Harry knew that his father was one of the great, infamous Marauders.

 _Wait, is that Professor Lupin sitting across from them?_ It certainly _looked_ like a younger version of their former Defense professor. _Much younger. Wow, the years were really bad to him._ He looked a lot less shabby, too. Even though his robes were clearly second-hand, they were no worse than what Fred and George normally wore. _If Dumbledore could get us new supplies when we showed up, why couldn't he get some for Lupin, too?_ He frowned. _Or us, back in our own time? Ron even had to use a second-hand wand 'til Dad won the_ Prophet _'s sweepstakes last year._

"You know, Padfoot, I think you might be right," Harry's lookalike said. _That other one is Padfoot!_ Fred thought excitedly. _George'll eat his hat, missing this!_ He grinned at Fred. "James Potter, pleased to meet you."

A round of introductions followed. Fred tried not to react too badly when Sirius Black introduced himself. The other boy seemed to notice, though, and grimaced. "Ignore what you heard about my family," he spat. "I'm nothing like them."

"The white sheep of the Black family," James added, putting a friendly arm around his friend.

 _He's going to betray you someday._ He desperately wanted to warn James, wanted to say something so that Harry would not have to grow up without his parents. He nearly did, but stopped himself. _Time doesn't like to be meddled with, Dumbledore said. What if I say something, and Harry ends up dying instead?_ Hating himself, Fred forced a smile. "Right," he said. "Sorry. It's just the name, you know?"

Sirius snorted. "Yeah, trust me, I know. But I'm not my family. I'm _not_." He smiled grimly. "Besides, it's not like I'm the only one with family in Slytherin."

"Yeah, what's up with that?" James asked. "A _twin_ in with those snakes?"

"The good twin," Sirius said, gesturing theatrically at Fred. "And the evil twin." He glared at the Slytherin table.

"Ge-Gustav's not evil," Fred snapped. _Not like you are, Black._

"Then what's he doing in Slytherin?" a pudgy boy asked. From the introductions earlier, Fred thought his name was Peter Pettigrew. Looking at him, though, it was hard to reconcile the small, mousy boy with the knowledge that he would grow up to become the war hero who earned a posthumous Order of Merlin for his heroic – and fatal – confrontation with the treacherous Black.

Fred could see the friendliness of the surrounding students vanishing. He remembered that this was 1976, and that You-Know-Who was at the height of his power. Sorting into Slytherin was a one-way ticket to becoming a Death Eater. Eleven-year-olds might be forgiven for not knowing that when they Sorted, maybe, but someone transferring into Hogwarts as a sixth year would certainly know. _Oh, George, what have you gotten yourself into?_

Fred shrugged. "Well, you saw how long he was under the Hat," he said. "It didn't want to place him there, I reckon. But twins can get away with a lot, you know. A bit strange if we don't hang out. Worked it all out with Dumbledore before term started," He tapped his nose meaningfully.

Peter looked confused, but Lupin – _no, Remus, call him Remus_ – choked, his eyes wide. "What is it, Moony?" James asked.

 _Professor Lupin was Moony? Always knew he was awesome._

"He's a spy?" Remus whispered.

"But that's really dangerous!" an absolutely stunning girl with auburn hair and a prefect badge said. She had not introduced herself yet, but with a pang, Fred recognized her from Harry's photo album. _Lily Potter._

"Can't say one way or the other," Fred replied, but he winked.

The atmosphere at the Gryffindor table lightened considerably after that.

* * *

At the Slytherin table, George was relieved to see Fred grin and offer him a toast. He hadn't _really_ expected his twin to begrudge him for his prank. Die of jealousy, sure, but not actually be upset. It was good to get confirmation, though.

Across from him, a blond boy with a shiny prefect badge extended a hand. "Evan Rosier," he said.

"Gustav Vassilyev," George replied, shaking the proffered hand.

"Yes," Rosier said wryly. "I know. Transfer students are not exactly common, you realize. Nor are twins who are Sorted into rival Houses. I trust that won't be a problem?"

"No problem at all," George said.

"Vassilyev's a Russian name, isn't it?" the girl next to Rosier asked. "Is that where you're from?"

"No," George said, glad he and Fred had worked out their cover story with Dumbledore beforehand. It would have been awkward if they gave contradictory answers. "Our family was Russian originally, but we've lived in Britain for a few generations now."

"But they were wizards, at least?" a large, muscular boy asked aggressively.

"I'm in Slytherin, aren't I?" George asked.

The muscular boy chuckled approvingly. "Glad to hear it. There are _some_ ," he glared down the table, but George could not tell who it was directed at, "who think they can tarnish the good name of our House with their inferior blood." _Joining the House of soon-to-be Death Eaters might not have been the best idea I ever had,_ George realized.

"Don't bother, Mulciber. He's skipped the feast again," someone called.

The muscular boy – Mulciber? – snorted. "Good riddance. The stench would put me off my food."

Rosier raised a hand. "Now, Mulciber, be fair. The scarecrow's gotten better since he got his accent fixed." Around them, a few students shuddered as if reminded of something horrific. George was feeling very curious about the identity of the student. _A non-pureblood in Slytherin. Might be someone worth knowing._

"He's still a disgrace," Mulciber insisted. He paused, and then added, "And he's insane." George was disliking Mulciber more and more. The student he was complaining about seemed like he could be interesting, though.

"Well, yes," Rosier agreed good-naturedly. "I'll give you that. But he's also one of ours, even if you don't like him much. _I_ don't like him much." He shrugged. "Still, he's useful if you can get over the lamentable aesthetic issues. And he's brilliant. But if you want to give him grief, go right ahead. Just give me warning so I can be somewhere else when he tears your face off, alright?"

Yes, George definitely liked the sound of this guy. He hoped it didn't turn out to be someone horrible, like Malfoy or anyone equally despicable. _Nah,_ he thought, _Malfoy's a pureblood. Besides, didn't Professor Moody say that the head of the auror office had been a Slytherin? Scrim-something. Scrimjaw? Maybe it's him._ He was about to ask for the name of the student, when Dumbledore rose from the staff table.

"And now that you are all fed and watered, I have a few start of term notices. First, Mister Filch has asked me to inform you that Pinkerton's Permanent Paint and Fizzbang's Firecrackers are no longer allowed on the grounds. You are welcome to consult the full list of banned goods in his office. I am told that it now consists of over 150 separate items." Dumbledore's mustache twitched.

"Finally, I would like to inform students, new and old, that the forest on the grounds is strictly forbidden. I trust that, with this reminder, there shall be no unfortunately misunderstandings this year."

"Sure thing, Professor!" a handsome, black-haired boy shouted from the Gryffindor table. The other students laughed.

"Idiot," murmured Rosier, shaking his head.

"Thank you for your agreement, Mister Black," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. _Black? Not Sirius Black! He was a Gryffindor?_ "And now, off to bed!" Dumbledore said. "Prefects, if you'll lead the way?"

Rosier stood. "Follow me, Vassilyev," he said. Louder, he called out, "First years, follow me!"

He and the other prefects led the Slytherin students to the dungeons. They passed the potions classroom, and George suddenly realized that he had not seen Snape up at the staff table. _Maybe he's not a professor yet?_ he guessed. He hoped not. It would be fantastic to be shot of the greasy git, even if only until he and Fred returned to their own time.

"Pineapple," Rosier said upon reaching a stone wall. It opened to reveal a grand room illuminated by greenish light. A window on the far end of the room looked out at the lake. Two merfolk swam past, and one of the first years gasped. Mulciber chuckled nastily, earning a glare from Rosier. Once everyone was inside, the opening in the stone wall closed.

"Password changes every fortnight," Rosier said. "Do _not_ share it with anyone outside Slytherin. I don't care if your girlfriend or baby brother wants to visit. You do not share the password. Got it?" There were nods from the assembled students. "Great. Professor Slughorn, our Head of House, will be at breakfast tomorrow with your schedules." _Ha! Sounds like no Snape for potions!_ "Now off to bed, the lot of you. First years, through here." He turned to Mulciber. "Show Vassilyev our dorm, won't you?"

Mulciber grunted but led George down the hall and through an open door, followed by two other boys. There were six beds in the room, and the two boys whose names George did not yet know each made their ways towards ones near the middle of the room. "That's mine," Mulciber said, pointing to the nearest bed. "Avery's, Wilkes'." The other two boys each nodded as Mulciber said their names. "That one's yours, I guess," Mulciber continued, pointing to a bed next to the trunk that Dumbledore had provided for him. "Rosier's, and," he wrinkled his nose in distaste, "Snape's."

George choked. _Snape? Professor Snape was going to be his roommate?_ Mulciber smirked, misinterpreting George's reaction. "I know. Filthy half-blood." He spat on the floor in the direction of Snape's bed. _Wait, Snape's a half-blood?_

"Where is Snape, anyway?" Avery asked. "If he skipped the feast, shouldn't he be here?"

Wilkes shrugged, yawning. "Showers, probably. You know what he's like at the start of term." At George's confused look, he added, "When Mulciber says 'filthy half-blood,' he means _filthy_. Snape's probably spent the whole feast in the shower, getting the grime off."

"Wish he could get the grease off, too," Avery muttered.

George's thoughts were reeling. _The Slytherins don't like Snape? They always seemed to like him. Could that much have changed in eighteen years?_

The answer, apparently, was yes. George had just finished brushing his teeth and changing into his pajamas when what could only be the teenaged Severus Snape came into the dorm. They boy had the same distinctive, oversized hooked nose and limp black hair, which hung in curtains to hide most of his sallow face. But he moved with none of the adult's confidence. His rounded shoulders were hunched forward, and he kept his eyes down and averted from his dorm mates. His clothes were not the accustomed billowing black robes, but a threadbare school uniform that looked to have been poorly modified to fit someone taller and thinner than its original owner.

"Snape," Rosier said in greeting. "We missed you at the feast."

Mulciber grunted. Snape turned his head in his direction, but did not meet the muscular boy's eyes. _This is the fearsome potions master?_ He turned back towards Rosier and shrugged. "Wasn't hungry."

A heavy silence filled the room. "Right," Rosier said at last. "Well, glad you got a chance to clean up. Since you missed the feast, I guess you haven't heard about our new transfer students. This here," he nodded towards George, "is Gustav Vassilyev. He'll be joining out year."

"Pleased to meet you," George said, extending a hand towards Snape. _And isn't this surreal?_

Snape's eyes flicked towards George's outstretched hand warily, as if he was afraid that this was somehow a trap. Apparently satisfied, he took it. George barely hid a flicker of surprise at the evident callouses on the long, delicate-looking fingers. "Severus Snape," he said. It was same deep, rich voice that George remembered. "Transfer students, you said? Where are the others?"

"My twin brother's in Gryffindor."

"My condolences," Snape said. The other boys in the room chuckled. George frowned.

"Well, I'm off to bed," George said, clapping Snape on the back. _Merlin, wait until I tell this to Fred!_ To his surprise, Snape winced and staggered slightly at the contact. Turning back to his bed, George caught a brief flicker of disapproval on Rosier's face.

* * *

A/N:

Long author's note. Sorry!

Dumbledore used legilimency just enough to confirm the twins' time travel story. He is actively trying not to learn too much about the future, for exactly the reasons he explains in this chapter. This does not necessarily contradict his actions in PoA, since he already knew that Buckbeak miraculously escaped before suggesting that Harry and Hermione rescue innocent lives. He was ensuring the continuity of the timeline he remembered, not trying to change the past.

Fred and George only know what their characters knew as of the night before the champions' selection in GoF. They therefore know about the Marauders' Map and that Remus is a werewolf. However, they do not know about the Shrieking Shack incident, that Peter Pettigrew framed Sirius Black for the betrayal of the Potters, or that Snape was a Death Eater-turned-spy (in GoF, Sirius told Harry that despite hanging around future Death Eaters in school, Snape had never even been accused of being one himself. This suggests it was not common knowledge).

Feodor Vassilyev was the husband of the woman credited to have borne the most children in history. No, Dumbledore did not mean this as a shot at Weasley fecundity (especially since, at this point, Molly and Arthur only have three children). But "Vassilyev" sounds vaguely like "Weasley," and from what the twins let slip, Dumbledore does know that they are related to that family. He simply figures that similar-sounding names are easier to remember.

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	2. Chapter 2: I Spy with My Inner Eye

"Normal speech"

 _Thoughts_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 2: I Spy with My Inner Eye**

\- September 2, 1976 -

The next morning, George was momentarily confused as he looked around the room. _Where's Fred? And why's everything green?_ And then he remembered. He sat up and saw that Snape's bed was empty. Mulciber, Wilkes, and Avery were still asleep, but Rosier was sitting on his bed, reading. He gestured for George to come over. He did, and Rosier cast a silencing spell around them. George raised an eyebrow.

"Look," Rosier said without preamble, "I don't care if you dislike half-bloods in general or just Snape in particular. But he's a Slytherin, and you're a Slytherin. Snarl and snipe at him all you like in private, but sure it's only snarling and sniping until you graduate, understand?"

"What?" George asked, confused. Had his dislike for his future professor been that obvious?

Rosier sighed, and then said slowly, as if speaking to a dimwitted child, "Don't insult him in mixed company. Don't hex him unless it's Defense class. And for Merlin's sake, don't _hit_ him."

George blinked, remembering Rosier's disapproving look from the night before. "You're upset because I clapped him on the back?" he asked incredulously.

The prefect rolled his eyes. "If that's what you want to call it. Personally, I call it beating a man when he's already down, but whatever nomenclature suits you, I guess. Just don't do it again, and we won't have any problems."

"I wasn't trying to hurt him," George protested. "It was just a friendly pat."

Rosier winked. "Right. Like I said, just don't do it again, and we'll be fine. Now, it's your first day, so I suggest taking a shower and getting dressed, make a good impression. I'll be leading the firsties down to breakfast in half an hour. I suggest you follow so you don't lose your way to the Great Hall." He cancelled his silencing spell. "Off you go."

 _Slytherins are crazy_ , George thought as he gathered a set of school robes from his trunk and made his way to the bathroom. _Utterly barmy. If that tap was enough to send Snape crying for a prefect, no wonder Malfoy got away with his "hippogriff mauling" story for so long last year._

The sixth year boys' bathroom looked almost identical to the one in Gryffindor tower, except for the green and silver color scheme and a subtle pattern of snakes on the tile floor. He took a quick shower and changed into his new uniform. Making his way to the common room, he caught Rosier's eye. The blond prefect nodded, and then called the first years together and led the way to the Great Hall.

George was surprised to see that, despite the early hour, several students were already seated at the Slytherin table. Only Ravenclaw had as many people at breakfast that early. George looked around, but did not see Fred. The Gryffindor table was nearly empty. _Must not be awake yet. Just my luck to wind up in the House of overeager morning people._

George was midway through breakfast when the rest of the school began arriving in the Great Hall. He caught Fred's eye, and signaled that he wanted to speak with his twin after they ate. Fred nodded.

An enormous, bald old man with a great walrus-like mustache waddled from the staff table to where the Slytherins were eating. He began handing out schedules, occasionally pausing to chat with various students about their summers or their relatives.

"It was excellent, Professor, thanks," Rosier said, smiling. "You were right about the café on the Riviera. My parents loved it, asked me to relay this with their compliments." He handed the man a small box.

"It was nothing, my boy, nothing at all! My pleasure entirely," the professor boomed genially, accepting the gift. "And, ah, here it is." He handed Rosier his schedule. "Delighted to see your OWL scores. All O's and E's. Very impressive. Now, let me see." He rummaged in his stack of parchment. "Vassilyev. Here you go." He handed George his schedule. "Ah, young Regulus! How was your summer?"

George scanned the sheaf of parchment. He had a free period this morning, with Divination and then another free period in the afternoon. All of his classes were mixed with the other Houses, just like the NEWT lessons were in his time. That was a relief. He would not be entirely cut off from Fred.

* * *

Fred wished that he had gone with George to Slytherin. The Marauders, pranksters extraordinaire, were obviously a tight-knit group. James Potter and Sirius Black seemed nearly as close as he and George were. As welcoming as the Gryffindor boys were to a new student in their dorm, he felt separate from them. Perhaps it was his knowledge of what would happen to them. Perhaps it just that he missed his twin. Either way, he felt off-balance.

On the plus side, the Marauders did seem to have their priorities in order. It had taken barely any persuasion to get Fred to agree that, yes, that Snape fellow did sound rather dodgy and that of course he would be happy to help his new roommates show him what's what.

Going down to breakfast, he caught George's eye and nodded. They would talk after they ate. The food was every bit as good as Fred remembered from his own time, and he was thoroughly enjoying his bacon and eggs when McGonagall came around with the course schedules. Fred nearly choked when he saw her. It had not been as obvious last night, with the dimmer lighting, but the difference in age was absolutely striking now. Fred was not sure how old his Head of House actually was, but eighteen years clearly made more of a difference for her than they did for Dumbledore. Her face was a lot less lined, making it seem far less severe. Her dark hair was only lightly brushed with gray. She was – and Fred gulped, just thinking about it – surprisingly attractive, assuming one went for slightly older witches.

He stammered his thanks as she handed him his schedule. Beside him, James gave him an odd look. "You okay there, Feodor?" he asked.

"Yeah," Fred said, coughing a bit to cover up how his voice was slightly higher pitched than usual. "Yeah, I'm fine." To distract himself, he glanced down at his schedule. Reading over it, he smiled. He had a free period first thing. That should give him plenty of time to meet up with George.

"Mind if I take a look?" James asked.

Fred shrugged. "Sure." He handed over the schedule.

James whistled. "NEWT Divination, huh? Didn't know anyone actually took that. Might be enough for ol' Delphius to finally keel over. Unless he saw it in the stars or something already, I guess." He handed the schedule back. "Nice to get a free period first thing, though. Guess you're not taking Herbology like me and Sirius."

"You're taking Herbology?"

James smirked. "Going to be an auror, you know. You need five NEWTs, and your new friend McGonagall recommended I keep up at it and drop some of my other classes." Fred glared at him, but James only laughed. "Just taking the mickey from you, mate. Can you imagine what she was like in her prime?" He winked and made a low _mreow_ sound, and Fred felt his ears turn red. He did _not_ want that mental image . . . . Merlin, maybe he did. _Please, kill me now._

Finishing his meal, Fred made his excuses to James and headed towards what, in his time, had been an empty classroom. Fortunately, that still seemed to be the case now. A few minutes later, George entered the room, closing the door behind him before casting a quick privacy charm.

"Slytherin, Gred, really?" Fred asked.

George smiled. "Yup. Last-minute decision. Apparently, Dumbledore asked the Hat to send me there – thought that putting us together would be a recipe for trouble."

"Trouble? Who, us?" Fred said, laughing. "It's bloody brilliant! Glad it's only temporary, though. But you'll never believe who my roommates are!"

George's smile widened. "Oh, I might just have you beat. But do tell, Forge, old boy."

"Well, I have the distinct pleasure of bunking with Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs themselves. Also known as Remus Lupin –"

" _Professor_ Lupin?" George spluttered.

"The one and only," Fred agreed.

"Wonder if he's been bitten yet," George mused.

"No idea," Fred said, shrugging. "Either way, he's Moony. _The_ Moony. As for the others, we have Peter Pettigrew, war hero, Sirius Black," he snarled the name, "and – you'll never believe it – James Potter, father of our very own Boy-Who-Lived."

George whistled. "Now you've got me jealous. Here I'm stuck with the junior Death Eater brigade, and you get the Marauders."

"That bad?"

"They think _half-bloods_ are filth. I can't imagine how nasty they'd be about muggleborns. It's insane. But you haven't guessed who my dorm mate is."

Fred frowned. "Who?"

George smiled. "Think. Who's missing from the staff table?"

Fred considered for a moment. Then he smiled, recalling his conversation with the Marauders. "Snape," he said. "You're rooming with _Snape_?" George beamed. "Well, we'll have to show our appreciation for his greasiness, won't we?" He chuckled. "And my new friends the Marauders were just discussing a nice, neighborly gesture for him earlier."

"How remarkably caring of them."

"Isn't it just?"

Sobering slightly, George asked, "Any word from Dumbledore yet?"

Fred shook his head. "No. I hope he can finish his tests soon. Not that I mind being here, but –"

George nodded. "It'd be nice to know for certain that we can get home."

* * *

From underneath James's invisibility cloak, Remus exchanged a glance with Peter, who stood in rat form on his shoulder. James and Sirius had told them to follow the Gryffindor transfer student after breakfast while they went down to their Herbology class. The claims last night about Gustav spying on the Slytherins had struck them as too suspicious, although they had played along, and a quick, private check of the Map had revealed that "Feodor and Gustav Vassilyev" were actually Frederick and George Weasley. Seeing the Slytherin twin cast a privacy charm on the door had only increased Remus's unease with the whole situation.

And yet, to Remus's surprise, their story mostly checked out, even though he did not understand a lot of what they were saying. They were both clearly anti-Death Eater, which was a relief, and Dumbledore seemed to be aware of whatever it was that was going on.

But that did _not_ explain why they thought that he, Remus, was somehow a professor. Or how they knew that he was a werewolf, but seemed confused about whether or not he had become a werewolf _yet._ Or how Peter was a war hero, or James the father of anybody. Or Feodor – or Frederick, since that clearly his real name – having such a bad reaction to Sirius. A distrust of the Black name was one thing – they were a nasty family with a deservedly dark reputation – but he and his twin seemed to have a grudge against Sirius personally for some other reason entirely.

And they also disliked Snape, which was perhaps more understandable. Remus did not have anything in particular against the boy, not like James and Sirius did, but he _was_ unpopular. But they both seemed to _know_ Snape somehow. Why else would they single him out? Gustav – or George, Remus supposed – did not mention any of the other Slytherins by name, and while Snape was disagreeable, Mulciber was sadistic, and Rosier was positively sociopathic.

Frederick sighed. "It's more than just that," he said. "I keep wanting to warn them, you know? But then I remember what Dumbledore said. What if I make everything worse?"

George nodded slowly. "Knowing the future's not as much fun as I'd have thought it would be," he agreed.

* * *

James and Sirius stared at Peter and Remus after they reported back once Herbology had ended. "They're _seers_?" Sirius asked, incredulous.

"They're taking NEWT Divination, Padfoot," James said. He seemed shaken. "Maybe . . . maybe they are. I mean, from what Moony and Wormtail said, it sounds like they are working with Dumbledore. He's running some tests. I think – I think maybe they were homeschooled and Saw something, and now the headmaster wants them here, to see if theyre really, you know, seers. They obviously know some things they shouldn't, like Moony's furry little problem. That might be why they're hiding their identities. I mean, if You-Know-Who got his hands on a pair of true seers . . . ."

Sirius blanched. "But their reaction to me –"

"I don't know! Maybe, I don't know, maybe they Saw something bad happen to you. Or it could just be your name, like we thought last night," James said, running a hand through his untidy black hair.

Sirius nodded, although he still looked uneasy. "Right. Right. Okay, let's keep this quiet. No tripping up. We don't know anything about any Frederick or George Weasley. Just Feodor and Gutsav Vassilyev. Got it?"

The other three nodded.

* * *

Divination was rubbish.

Neither twin had taken Divination as an elective in their own time, opting instead for Muggle Studies and Care of Magical Creatures. It was possible that Trelawney was better, but from what they had heard form Lee – who did take OWL Divination – that seemed highly unlikely. At least Professor Delphius did not predict a different student's death each year.

But he was about ten million years old, and he made even Binns seem interesting. He even managed to fall asleep about mid-way through his own explanation of their upcoming homework assignment to make predictions based on the practical application of ornithomancy.

Neither Fred nor George had any idea what ornithomancy was.

They turned to ask the only other student in the class, a bored-looking Ravenclaw boy, but he had already packed up his bags to leave the room by the time either of them realized that the professor had fallen asleep.

Shrugging, Fred said, "So, I was thinking of adapting the canary cream formula a bit. Maybe allowing for a few other animals. What do you think?"

"Hmmm . . . could be interesting. We'd have to tweak the underlying base a bit, but it shouldn't be too hard, I reckon."

They spent the rest of the lesson modifying their recipe.

* * *

That night, four boys lay awake in their beds in the Gryffindor sixth year boys' dormitory.

James Potter asked himself why he was known for being a father. He wondered who the mother could be. He hoped it would be Lily. She seemed less hostile to him than she had been before, and yet she still refused to go out with him. And what was so impressive about his son living? Not that James wanted his hypothetical future son to die, but it seemed like such a strange thing to emphasize. Was he some sort of miracle kid? Was he unusually accident-prone? James sighed.

Sirius Black tossed and turned. The twins' silence about his future path spun wild imaginings. Did he die horribly? Did he make some catastrophic error that got a lot of people killed? He imagined terrible scenarios. He pictured a duel against Death Eaters in St. Mungo's, where a single miscast spell destroyed a ward, killing dozens of innocent patients. He saw himself as an auror, blindly leading his colleagues into an enemy trap, with the widows and orphaned children of his fallen comrades cursing his name.

Remus Lupin smiled as he lay in his bed. _Professor._ They had called him _Professor._ He might be a werewolf, but that apparently did not mean that he could not have just as rich and fulfilling a life as anyone else. Headmaster Dumbledore had been right after all. His curse did not need to define him.

Peter Pettigrew felt, for almost the first time in his life, like he actually belonged in Gryffindor. A war hero. He was going to be a war hero. The way the Gryffindor twin had said it filled him with an unfamiliar sensation. Pride. He felt pride. Let James be a father. Let Remus be a professor. Let Sirius be . . . whatever horrible thing he was going to be. He, Peter, was the one who got to be a hero. No one would ignore him then. He would not be in the others' shadows forever. A hero. He was going to be a hero.

* * *

A/N:

Before people ask, there is not going to be any romance between Fred and McGonagall. He's just a teenaged boy who was suddenly confronted by a younger, more attractive version of his professor. It's no different than Hermione's crush on Lockhart in CoS or Lavender and Parvati mooning over Firenze in OotP.

Please review!


	3. Chapter 3: A Nose for Trouble

"Normal speech"

 _Thoughts_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **A/N:** Warnings for language.

 **Chapter 3: A Nose for Trouble**

\- September 3, 1976 –

McGonagall's first sixth-year Transfiguration lesson of the term was almost exactly as Fred and George remembered it.

Almost.

Yes, McGonagall gave more-or-less the same lecture on how the rigors of NEWT-level Transfiguration differed from the OWL requirements. Yes, she reviewed the importance of nonverbal spellwork. And, yes, she went over Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration and its Five Principal Exceptions.

But the _Marauders_ had not be in their NEWT class back in 1994. _Snape_ had not been in their class, either. And having the Marauders plus Snape in the same room?

Much more interesting than a lecture they had already heard. Even if Fred was having unusual difficulty looking at McGonagall, for reasons he seemed oddly reluctant to explain to George.

Sirius Black had seemed fairly subdued when he entered the classroom. James seemed to notice this, and he tapped his friend on the arm and nodded in Snape's general direction. Sirius grinned, but it seemed almost mechanical to the twins, as if his heart was not really in it. Even so, as the lecture progressed, Sirius glared at the greasy teenager, occasionally flicking bits of paper in his direction whenever McGonagall was facing the other way, to silent laughter from James and Peter. That seemed to raise his spirits, and he soon seemed almost restored to the confident, slightly arrogant demeanor that Fred and George remembered from the Welcoming Feast.

For his part, Snape alternated between taking furious notes in tiny, cramped handwriting, scowling at Sirius, and shooting longing, mournful looks at the gorgeous redhead who would – Fred and George knew – eventually become Harry's mum. James Potter alternated between amusement at Sirius's antics and focusing his attention on the girl, preening whenever he thought she might be looking at him. Lily Evans, for her part, studiously ignored them both.

"Mister Black," McGonagall said, and Sirius rearranged his expression into a parody of purest innocence, "as I am certain you have been paying attention, could you please provide an example to the class of one of the exceptions?"

"Sure thing, Professor," Sirius replied at once. "You can't create food. You can transfigure food that already exists, or multiply what you already have, but you can't create it from nothing."

"Very good, Mister Black. It appears that you may have been listening after all." There was some good-natured chuckles from the other students. "Five points to Gryffindor." She turned to face the other side of the class and continued her lecture. Smirking, Sirius took the opportunity to lob a ball of parchment at Snape. It bounced off the Slytherin boy's head, and he whirled around angrily to face Sirius, drawing his wand.

"Mister Snape," McGonagall snapped. He turned to face her, his face splotchy from an angry, embarrassed flush. "You have not been told to take out your wand yet for this lesson. Ten points from Slytherin." Several of the Slytherins glared at Snape, who scowled as he re-sheathed his wand, while some of the others aimed their annoyed looks at McGonagall. Although he privately thought that she was being unusually harsh – _Is she actually_ more _mellow in the future?_ \- George grinned along with Fred at seeing the professor who most enjoyed docking points losing some. And for drawing his wand, of all things. _Something Fred and I must have lost a hundred or more points from him over the years._ "Perhaps you can explain the underlying theoretical basis for the exceptions?" she asked.

Fred raised his eyebrows as he glanced at George, who shrugged. They had not covered this in their class. Or maybe they had, and they just had not been paying enough attention.

"Cognitive dissonance," Snape said simply.

McGonagall sighed. "And in more than two words, Mister Snape?" The class tittered.

Snape's scowl deepened. "As per the first exception, one cannot simply create food out of non-food. However, one _can_ create something that is not immediately recognized as food but which can _become_ food in the future. For example, in the Franco-Prussian wars of the 1800s, the witch-general Amelie LeBeau found her army trapped with limited supplies. She transfigured rocks into cattle – much as you transfigured your desk into a pig in our first Transfiguration lesson, Professor – and then slaughtered the animals, thereby feeding her army. By the same token, one can transfigure a quill into an apple seed, and then plant the seed. Years later, one can consume the apples grown from the tree that took root.

"Likewise, the third exception – that one cannot create currency – does not account for the various monetary systems in use. European wizards were able to circumvent the exception when they first met with Native American wizards. They were able to transfigure objects into wampum, which some of the native tribes used as currency, because they did not consider clam shells to be money. Conversely, the Native American wizards were able to transfigure mundane objects into gold, which _they_ did not believe to be currency. This then led to the period of inflation that hobbled magical Spain and caused Gringotts to change their policy so that they now only accept goblin gold."

As he spoke, Snape's annoyance at being forced to elaborate on his initial response seemed to dissipate, and he grew increasingly animated. In his excitement, his measured accent began to slip, and he started to swallow some of his syllables even as he stressed different vowels than usual. Peter snickered audibly, prompting a few other students to laugh as well. Snape flushed. He took a deep, steadying breath, hiding his face behind his curtain of lank, greasy black hair. When he continued, he spoke more slowly, carefully enunciating his words, and his normal accent – which, George suddenly realized, was entirely affected, not his natural one at all – was back in place. _I wonder if that's why he usually speaks slowly in class, to prevent his accent from reverting back._

"Cognitive dissonance explains the seeming paradox. We cannot create things that we view as being of true value – food, which we need to survive, or wealth, which we use to denote our prosperity – because on some deeper, intuitive level, we do not expect such things to come from nothing. And yet it is, demonstrably, possible to create food or wealth, provided that we are sufficiently removed from the process. Conjuring objects for future sale or trade, for instance, or transfiguring an animal to be slaughtered for its meat. And yet in both of these examples, there is an act of effort involved beyond the mere act of transfiguration – commerce, in the former, and butchery in the latter."

 _Wow. We definitely did not cover this in our class,_ George thought. He glanced at Fred, who looked equally thoughtful. His mind spun with ways to exploit this. _Maybe a temporary confundus, so one of us thinks that gold isn't money? No, he said that non-goblin gold isn't accepted anymore. Maybe jewels, then? Those are sort-of money, but there aren't goblin-only jewels, are there?_

"Thank you, Mister Snape. Ten points to Slytherin," McGonagall said, and something in Snape's posture relaxed. _Was he that worried about the loss of a mere ten House points?_ "Now, for the rest of the lesson, I want you to practice conjuring nonverbally. You will each start by conjuring a spoon. You may begin."

Fred and George had already learned how to do this, of course, and so they were unsurprised to succeed on their first attempt. They were impressed to see that both James and Sirius also managed to conjure spoons on their first try. The two then had a good-natured competition over who could create the most outrageous looking one. After Sirius conjured one with a handle shaped like a perfect Gryffindor lion, McGonagall awarded them an extra five points and ordered them to assist any of their classmates who were still struggling. Shrugging, the two boys went over to assist Remus and Peter.

* * *

George stared – unobtrusively, he hoped – at Snape. Any second now, he would take a bite from the modified canary cream. He and Fred were, alas, not on nearly as good terms with the house elves of this era as they had been in their own. Fortunately, the Marauders were. The house elves, once assured of the harmlessness of the concoction, had agreed to mix the potion in with the stewed turnips that would be served at lunch. Apparently, Snape was one of the few students who liked them. They could not be certain that he would eat any turnips today, of course, but they could live with that. It was hardly like a temporary transformation would actually hurt anyone, after all. Fred and George had tested the revised potion on themselves first, as always, and it would wear off harmlessly after a minute or two.

As hoped, Snape – sitting at the far end of the table, near the younger students – spooned a small portion of turnips onto his plate and took a bite.

A few first years shrieked as he turned into a bat.

George grinned over at Fred, who was laughing with the Marauders over at the Gryffindor table. "Feeling a bit batty today, Snivellus?" James called.

The bat flapped around the table erratically. _Was he panicking? Did something go wrong? Nothing like this happened when Fred and I tested it!_ The bat knocked over a jug of pumpkin juice in its uneven flight. It squeaked madly.

"What is the meaning of this?" McGonagall demanded, marching over from the staff table.

"He just turned into a bat, Professor!" one of the first years cried.

"Does anyone know who is responsible?" McGonagall asked, with a pointed look at the Gryffindor table. No one responded. She pursed her lips and sighed. She raised her wand, presumably to restore Snape to normal, but just then, the spell wore off, and he returned to his human form directly on top of the table. Several Slytherins cursed as he landed on their food-laden plates. He pushed himself off the table, looking equal parts furious and mortified, and reached for his wand. His robes were covered with spilled food.

"When I find out who did this, it will be detention," McGonagall said sharply. More gently, she asked, "Are you alright, Mister Snape?" He nodded curtly. She looked at him for a long moment, almost pityingly, and then returned to the staff table, shaking her head.

George watched as Snape removed an empty potions vial from his book bag and poured some of the turnips into it. _Wonder what he's planning to do with that_ , George thought uneasily.

Across the table from him, Evan Rosier shook his head slightly.

* * *

At the Gryffindor table, a still-laughing James clapped Fred on the back. "That was brilliant, mate!" he cackled.

"Why a bat, though?" Remus asked.

"Yeah," Sirius said, grinning. His earlier funk seemed to have entirely dissipated in the wake of Snape's humiliation. "I see him more as a vulture, personally, with a great ugly beak like that. Plus the whole scraggly, death thing."

Fred felt momentarily confused, but then he understood. _Guess the 'bat of the dungeons' title comes with his billowing black robes._ He shrugged. "It was that or a canary." His tone came out slightly harsher than he had intended. _I'll need to work on that, or Dumbledore'll put me in solitary confinement until we're able to get back home._

James whistled. "Would have like to see him as a canary. Bright yellow. Perfect."

"Could you do it again?" Peter asked eagerly.

"Er," Fred said uneasily. It _had_ been funny at first, but Snape-the-bat's panicked flailing did not sit well with him. He did not like the expression on the other boy's face once he returned to his normal form, either. He was used to people – even the targets – laughing at his and George's pranks. Well, people other than Percy, at least. But Percy was a prat. The jokes were supposed to be good-natured, just a laugh, and most people took them as such. Snape obviously did not feel the same way.

Then again, it _was_ Snape.

"Sure," Fred said. "Why not? There's always dinner."

That night, Snape stormed out of the hall to gales of laughter after turning into a bright yellow canary. Two other Slytherins had been caught by the canary creams in the corn, and Professor Flitwick had to step in before their fellow students hexed the Gryffindors in retaliation on general principal, even though nothing could be proven.

* * *

Rosier, smiling, walked over to George and whispered in his ear, "I know it was you, Vassilyev. Impressive work." George grinned in response. Still smiling, Rosier continued, "Just remember what I said yesterday." And George felt his mirth fade as an icy chill ran down his spine.

* * *

George was gathering his pajamas to get ready for bed when Mulciber limped into the boys' dormitory, growling angrily. He slammed the door behind him as he entered.

"What's the matter with you, Mulciber?" Wilkes snapped. "Some of us are trying to get to sleep."

"That fucking bastard! I'll wring his filthy blood traitor neck. I'll –"

"Oh, just Snape then," Wilkes said, losing interest. He closed his eyes and turned over on his bed.

Rosier sighed. "What did he do this time?" he asked.

"He pinned me to the fucking ceiling!" Mulciber growled. "And then cast some toenail curse."

"Toenail curse?" Avery asked. "That's it?"

"They won't stop growing!" Mulciber shouted. "I'll kill the little bastard!"

"Oh, is that why you're limping?" Rosier asked, sounding bored. "Have you tried a _finite_?"

"Yes," Mulciber hissed. "And before you ask, I tried trimming them, too. I'm not an idiot, Rosier."

"Well, take your shoes off, at least," Rosier said. "And I'll get the counter from Snape. Sounds like it might be one of his personal ones. And where is he, anyway? I haven't seen him since dinner."

"Detention with Sprout," Avery said, annoyed. "Got caught trying to nick ingredients from the greenhouses again." George laughed. _Snape_ got detention for trying to steal ingredients and got caught by _Sprout_? That was just too perfect. Avery frowned at him. "It cost us fifty points, Vassilyev," he snapped.

"I can't take them off," Mulciber snarled. "I _tried_. I repeat, I am not an idiot. The toenails have fucking embedded themselves in my shoes. I _can't_ take them off."

Avery chuckled nastily. Mulciber glared at him. "Sorry," he said, not sounding particularly apologetic. "But it's a good hex."

George had to agree with that assessment. He made a mental note to find out what spell it was. "Why not go to the hospital wing?" he asked. Madam Pomfrey could fix almost anything, and she was clearly the nurse even in this time. He had seen her at the staff table. Unless she was not as talented or discreet now as she should be in the future?

"Don't be stupid, Vassilyev," Mulciber snapped.

George blinked, confused. Avery explained, "Snape doesn't exactly share his custom spells with the school nurse. That would defeat the whole point. Faster just to wait for him to cool down and cancel it himself." _He invented it? That's . . . pretty wicked, actually._ Turning back to Mulciber, Avery asked, "What'd you do to provoke him, anyway?"

"Nothing!" Mulciber snapped. "I did absolutely nothing to him. Didn't even _see_ him 'til he hexed me."

Rosier made a non-committal _hmmm_ sound. "And what were you doing before he showed up?"

Mulciber shrugged. "Just having a bit of fun with that redheaded mudblood. I barely got started before she ran off. Bitch should remember her place."

"You _are_ an idiot, Mulciber," Avery said, shaking his head. "She's his girlfriend. Of course he hexed you."

George choked. _Snape has a girlfriend? A_ muggleborn _girlfriend?_

 _Wait, that can't be Harry's_ mum _, could it?_

"They broke up," Mulciber insisted. "She's fair game."

"I'll have a word with him," Rosier promised. "Take a numbing potion until I can get the counter from him. He's bound to have an emergency stash in his trunk. But leave Evans alone for now. You know the rules. She's _his_ until _he_ says she isn't."

Mulciber snorted as he limped over to Snape's battered trunk. "She'll be a grandmother before Snape admits to _that_."

"Then she'll be a grandmother," Rosier said, his boredom giving way to irritation. "I'm not saying he was right to hex you, because Merlin knows he probably wasn't. But if you poke the dragon, expect to get burnt." At this, his eyes flicked momentarily over to George, who nodded to show that he understood that his words were not only meant for Mulciber.

"Come off it, Mulciber. There are plenty of other birds out there," Avery said. "What do you want with a mudblood anyway? That's practically bestiality. And even if it weren't, do you really want _Snape's_ sloppy seconds?"

"Who the bloody hell cares?" grumbled Wilkes from his bed. "Will you lot just shut up? Some of us want to sleep."

* * *

A/N:

Yes, the Marauders and the twins behaved badly this chapter. No, that does not mean that they are going to be presented badly throughout. In canon, James and Sirius were bullies around this age, and the twins did relentlessly prank Percy and later Umbridge (even if their pranks were less mean-spirited towards other characters).

Also, please keep in mind that on the other side of things, Snape did cast a painful spell on Mulciber after Lily had already gotten away. Although he has been treated fairly sympathetically so far, he is not going to be completely whitewashed.

Finally, just because a character says (or thinks) something does not make it true. There will be a lot of flawed information affecting people's perceptions.

Please review!


	4. Chapter 4: Marks and Masks

"Normal speech"

 _Thoughts_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 4: Marks and Masks**

Sirius absently rubbed the raised scar tissue that bisected his toned, muscular chest. "Have you seen my shirt?" he asked.

"You flung it on the floor not two minutes ago," Remus replied drily. "Check under the bed."

"Thanks," Sirius said, bending down to look. He rubbed the scar again.

"Stop picking at it, Padfoot," James chided.

"Huh?" Sirius said. He looked down at his chest. "Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting I'm doing it." He shrugged. It seemed clear to Fred that he was trying to feign a lack of concern. "Ah, well. Chicks dig scars, you know?" he added with faux cheer.

"I wish," Remus muttered.

Sirius winced. "Sorry, Moony. I didn't mean –"

"It's alright," Remus said hurriedly. "Really. It's just, well . . . almost _that_ time, you know?" He glanced at Fred, who froze for a moment in his own preparations for bed. Then he continued gathering his pajamas as if he had not understood. _I guess that means he's already been bitten. I feel like I should say something, but they shouldn't know that I know. Or am I just being paranoid?_

He hated not being able to say anything. Silence ill-suited him.

James grinned. "Relax, Pads. You're still the campus heartthrob. And Moony, the girls'd be all over you if you weren't so damn shy. Just _ask_ one. Worst that'll happen is they say no." He shrugged. "It's not so bad."

Sirius snorted. "You'd know, Prongs. How many times has Evans turned you down now?"

James grimaced. "So long as she says yes in the end, who cares? And she will. You'll see." _Well, he's right about that._ "And stop picking at it, Padfoot. Seriously."

"Sirius-ly?" Everyone groaned.

"How'd you get it, if you don't mind me asking?" Fred said, unable to contain his curiosity.

"My bitch of a mother," Sirius spat. "She wants me to join Voldemort like my maniac of a cousin. Uphold the family honor, and all that rot. I refused, and –" He gestured vaguely at his chest. "I left right after. James's mum and dad were good enough to take me in."

"Of course they did. You're my best mate," James said forcefully.

"And you _were_ bleeding on his doorstep," Remus added drily.

"And that," James agreed with a lopsided grin that belied the sadness in his eyes.

"Sorry," Fred said. "That's awful." _Assuming that's even what happened. Was this how you got close to them? Were you planning to betray James Potter even then?_

"Yeah," Sirius agreed bitterly. "She usually tried to avoid anything that would leave a mark, you know? Lots of curses don't, and she didn't want to diminish my value on the marriage market, see? But with Uncle Cygnus crowing over Bella, well . . . . Mother couldn't _wait_ to prove that she was just as willing to pledge her kids to the cause." He sighed. "Merlin, but I hope Reg is smart enough to say no." He seemed so genuine that Fred almost felt sorry for him, before he remembered that Sirius Black had been a deep cover Death Eater responsible for the deaths of two of the other boys in this room, that he had killed a dozen muggles with a single curse, that he had escaped from Azkaban using unknown dark magic.

No, Sirius Black could not be trusted, no matter how convincing his lies appeared.

 _Curses that don't leave a mark? How . . . convenient_ , Fred reflected. _Bet you needed that one scar just to sell your story. Just the one. If there's that, everyone'd be more likely to believe that there were other curses. Merlin, you even had me almost believing you._

James placed a comforting hand on Sirius's back. "It'll be okay, mate. You'll see."

Fred wanted to scream at James to stay away from him. _I need to do_ something. _I can't . . . can't just ignore what happens. Not if I want to be able to live with myself afterwards._

 _I wish I'd gone with George to Slytherin. At least then I wouldn't have to deal with this guilt._ As he lay in bed that night, he promised himself that he would do something, find some way to help. _Even if I can't change the past, maybe I can find something that we can use back in our own time?_

And with that thought, Fred knew exactly what he and George had to do.

 _We're going to make sure that the aurors are able to catch Sirius Black._

* * *

George woke up to the smell of burning lacewing flies.

Squinting in the dim light, he saw Snape sitting cross-legged in front of a mid-sized cauldron. The small fire beneath it illuminated his features in the otherwise dark room. Snape appeared exhausted as he carefully added snargaluff pods to the cauldron. He looked up at the sound of movement, and George could see dark shadows around his eyes. A moment later, Snape shook his head slightly, hiding his face behind his curtain of lank hair.

"Go back to sleep, Vassilyev," Snape murmured quietly.

"What are you brewing?" George whispered back, getting up from his bed to get a closer look at the cauldron.

"Nothing that concerns you."

Peering at the bubbling mixture, George could not be certain what Snape was making. He thought it could be the base for any of a dozen different potions. He glanced back at Snape. His face was still mostly hidden by his hair, but George could sense that something was wrong from the forced rigidity of his posture. _Was he hurt?_

That thought prompted him to ask, "Want some help?"

 _That_ earned him a glare. "No," Snape snapped. "Go back to sleep, Vassilyev."

Rosier yawned, blinking blearily as he sat up in his bed. "Back from detention, I see," he said. "Excellent. Next time you need ingredients, just ask Slughorn."

Snape shrugged minutely. "He's refuse."

"Then ask one of his favorites to ask for you," Rosier snapped. "Don't be stupid, Snape. And speaking of stupid, don't you think it's a little early in the year for you to go off hexing your Housemates? Not that I particularly care, except that I get stuck mediating, and, frankly, I have other things I'd rather do. Like sleep. So be a good little snake and fix Mulciber, alright?"

Snape scowled. "He deserved it," he said, even as he began stirring his potion.

Rosier raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Am I disputing that? No, I am not. But I _am_ asking you for the counterspell. We can – and will – discuss your justification afterwards."

"Fine," Snape spat. He switched the stirring rod to his left hand and continued to mix the potion without interrupting his previous rhythm. George was reluctantly impressed. With his right hand, he drew his wand to point at the still-sleeping Mulciber. "Retractus," he whispered. Mulciber stirred in his sleep, but then Snape hissed, "Somnium." He fell still again.

"Excellent," Rosier said. "Thank you for cooperating. Now, tell me what happened, won't you?"

"He was harassing Li- Evans," Snape said.

"She broke up with you," Rosier said, speaking slowing and clearly. To George, it seemed less like Rosier was trying to speak down to a dim child and more like he was trying to communicate with someone so alien than even generally-accepted truths required explanation. "Last term. It was all over the school. I dare say even first year Hufflepuffs heard about it."

"She did _not_ break up with me," Snape huffed. "On account of us never actually dating. We are _friends_ , Rosier. That's all."

 _Well, that should be a relief for Harry. His mum might be crazy enough to have been pals with Snape, but at least she didn't snog him or anything._

Rosier pressed one hand against his forehead and sighed. "You see," he said, "that makes what happened even less explicable. First of all, the way I hear it, she won't even give you the time of day anymore. You're no longer friends, Snape. Second, if you're not dating her, you can't claim her as off-limits. It doesn't work like that. You _know_ it doesn't work like that. So either she's yours, or she's not. And, frankly, it sounds like she's not. You have no claim over her. Let it go."

Snape's free hand clenched into a fist. "She's my friend," he said curtly. "She'll forgive me She _will_ , Rosier. If Mulciber wanted to," he choked the words, "to court her, fine." Even George could tell that Snape did not really mean it, that it would _not_ be even remotely fine. "But he just wants a bit of fun. And I won't let her end up like Macdonald. I _won't_."

Rosier sighed. "Fine. Evans is still off-limits. But you'll owe Mulciber for this. And me, for making me play peacekeeper. Again. And Vassilyev, for waking him up." Snape nodded. "Great. Now go ahead and finish whatever potion you thought was worth detention with Sprout and get to sleep."

* * *

\- September 4, 1976 –

When George awoke the next morning, he found most of his roommates still asleep. Even Rosier, who had been up early the last few days, was lying in bed, snoring softly. Only Snape's bed was empty. The potion he was brewing last night was still in its cauldron, simmering slightly. Looking at it now, George thought that it looked like either partially completed doxycide or the base for a powerful anti-acne cream. Given Snape's level of general greasiness but lack of pimples, George assumed it was the latter. Shrugging, he gathered his uniform and headed to the bathroom to take a shower.

He heard the sound of running water and realized that someone was already there. _Snape_ , he thought, grinning. _Everyone else is asleep back in the dorm._ Seeing Snape in the showers would be disgusting, of course, but it would also prove once and for all if he ever actually washed his hair. _And it'll be fantastic leverage on the git when we get back to the present. Wonder if I can sneak a camera in and nab a photo before we leave?_

Quietly, George made his way through the bathroom and towards the shower stalls. "Paellucidus," he whispered, pointing his wand at the stall door. It became transparent on his end, although from Snape's side it should still appear opaque.

George stared. Without meaning to, he dropped the clothes he was carrying to the tile floor. He suddenly understood why Rosier had chastised him for hitting Snape a few nights ago.

His future professor was painfully thin. The skin on his back stretched taut over clearly defined and – George swallowed thickly – mis-set bones. His back was mottled with angry red welts and dark purple bruises. They covered what looked like layer upon layer of scar tissue. A few cuts seemed only partially healed, and the stream of water washed away what looked like thick yellow pus.

No wonder Snape had flinched when George had clapped him on the back. George was surprised the other boy had not cried out.

His back still to the stall door, Snape suddenly threw a bar of soap against the wall. He fell to a kneeling position on the floor and lifted his head up. The angle just barely led George see his face. Snape's mouth was open and his chest contracted in what seemed like a terrible, terrible scream, and yet George heard only the continued sounds of the shower running.

After a long moment, Snape pushed himself off the floor of the stall and picked up the soap. He turned and began to lather his chest, acting as if he had not just collapsed in some sort of emotional fit. To his horror, George saw that Snape had two black eyes. _How had he hidden those before?_ George remembered the shadows on his face last night, and how this teenaged Snape so often his behind his hair. _When did he get those bruises?_

Seeing Snape's chest distracted him from those thoughts. Three reddened lines of scar tissue crisscrossed a chest nearly as badly bruised as his back. They looked like they had been made by some wild beast. _Maybe something in Care of Magical Creatures got him?_ George shuddered. It was terrible, and he felt horribly guilty about his plan to blackmail Snape by taking a photograph. This was not funny. It was not even remotely funny. It was sick.

Snape was off-limits. George would happily prank him once he was his professor again. But not now. The nasty, spiteful adult was fair game. This injured, unpopular boy was not.

Gathering up his clothes from the floor, George cancelled his spell and stumbled over to an empty stall. He took a quick shower, his mind reeling from what he had just seen. Dressing, he returned to his dorm. Mulciber and Avery were still asleep, but Wilkes's bed was now empty, and Rosier was gathering a fresh uniform from his trunk. Walking over to him, George said softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't know. About Snape, I mean."

Rosier eyed him for a long moment as if assessing his sincerity. Then he nodded. "No harm done. Just be more careful in the future, right, Vassilyev?"

George nodded. "Right." He paused. "Thanks. Snape's lucky to have you as a friend."

Rosier laughed. "Oh, I'm not his friend, Vassilyev. Snape's useful if you want homework done on the cheap, and he's brilliant in a 'will he blow us up or dazzle us' sort of way. Plus he's as dangerous as an erumpent when provoked, which is always good fun so long as you're not in the line of fire." He shook his head at Mulciber's sleeping form. "But even if he weren't absolutely mental, I wouldn't be friends with him. He's beneath me. I think you're the sort who understands that, Vassilyev, aren't you?"

George blinked. "Right," he said. _Merlin, he thinks I'm some sort of pureblood supremacist. And here I thought he was one of the decent ones._

Rosier smiled, and George realized how cold it suddenly seemed. "But before you get any ideas, Vassilyev, let me make it clear that he _is_ under my protection. I have plans for him, you understand? And if I think you are interfering with them, I will not hesitate to act." He kept smiling as he said it, and George suddenly asked himself what sort of person became a Slytherin prefect during the height of You-Know-Who's power.

 _Prank or not, I should have gone with Fred to Gryffindor._

* * *

A/N: Please review!


	5. Chapter 5: A Charm Offensive

"Normal speech"

 _Thoughts_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 5: A Charm Offensive**

Fred caught George's eye at breakfast. His twin nodded. After casting a brief glance at Snape, who was hiding behind his greasy black hair as he nibbled on a piece of toast, George rose from the Slytherin table and made his way to an empty classroom. Fred joined him a few seconds later, and then cast a quick privacy charm on the door.

"I had an idea last night –" Fred began.

At the same time, George said, "We need to lay off –"

They grinned. George gestured for Fred to speak first. "I figured out what we need to do," he said. "I'm going crazy –"

"Crazier," George interrupted.

"Crazier in Gryffindor," Fred agreed. "I can't just do _nothing._ It's eating me up. So I figured it out. We're going to set up a way to catch Black. When we get home, we can tell the aurors. They can catch him and throw him back to Azkaban where he belongs."

George's eyes widened. "Tracking charms don't last that long," he said.

"I know!" Fred cried. He began to pace the room, feeling agitated. "But we've invented loads of stuff, right? We can invent something that'll work. Maybe a charm, maybe a potion, maybe a charm embedded in a potion. But I can't . . . I can't just ignore this. When we get back home, I have to be able to look Harry in the eye and tell him that I tried. Even if it doesn't work. And it's not interfering in the timeline, since we'll be in the present when we actually use it."

George stared at his twin. Fred was right. They _did_ need to do something. He remembered his horrible plan from this morning to blackmail Snape. He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I reckon you're right, Fred. I think there's something else we should do, too."

Fred looked at him hopefully. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. We need to get ourselves a camera. Harry's mad over that photo album Hagrid gave him. We can get him some more pictures. And maybe some for anyone else we know who's lost someone. Didn't Katie lose her aunt? I think we had Transfiguration with a Bell girl yesterday – maybe it was her?"

Fred beamed at him. "That's brilliant! Dumbledore gave us some spending money. Not much, but if we pooled it, we could probably –"

"– afford a decent enough camera."

"Maybe letters, too, if we can find some way not to make it too obvious? Could you imagine Harry's face if we got him letters from his parents?" Fred sobered, and then added, "I still want to work on a tracking spell, though. I have to sleep in the same room as the bastard."

"You have one future Death Eater," George grumbled. "I have four."

"Four?" Fred asked, suddenly concerned. "Is it really that many?"

George shrugged. "Can't be sure, but do you remember hearing anything about Rosier, Mulciber, Avery, or Wilkes? I know Dad said Avery got off on the imperius defense, but I haven't heard of the other three. Wilkes hasn't said much to me, but the others are all pureblood nutters. I thought Rosier might have been alright, but . . . ." He shuddered slightly. "He really gave me the creeps earlier." Shaking his head, he added, "It's sad when _Snape's_ the least evil of the lot."

"You're sure he isn't –" Fred began.

"Absolutely," George said. "He's a _half-blood_ , for Merlin's sake. And apparently friends with Harry's mum." Fred choked, and George nodded. "That was my reaction. Anyway, the other Slytherins don't like him. Not sure if that's because he's a 'blood traitor,' or if it's, well –"

"Because he's a mean-spirited bastard?"

"Exactly. Besides, Dumbledore'd never have hired him if he'd been a Death Eater, would he?"

"Fair enough," Fred agreed. "He's still a git, though."

"That he is," George said. "But that's what I wanted to bring up with you. He's off limits while we're here."

"You're joking! We'll never get another opportunity like this! And it's not like playing a few minor pranks will break the past."

George shook his head. "He's in bad shape, Fred. Really bad. He looks like Percy that time he got ploughed playing against Charlie."

Fred stared. He remembered that. Charlie and Percy had been playing a seeker-off in the backyard of the Burrow a few years ago. Charlie had dived for the snitch, and Percy had tried to follow. He misjudged the dive, and ended up crashing at full speed into the ground. Mum had rushed him to St. Mungo's, and it had taken almost five hours for them to fix everything. Percy had refused to play quidditch again after that.

"You're serious?" Fred asked softly. George nodded. Fred remembered the slightly sick feeling he had gotten yesterday, seeing Snape's flailing when he had been transformed into a bat. He nodded. "Okay. I'll leave off. But he's fair game once he's teaching again," he warned.

"Naturally."

* * *

Charms that morning was pure chaos.

Flitwick had always been a fairly laid back instructor. Cheerful and easy-going, he allowed for a more relaxing, sociable classroom atmosphere than most professors did. As a result, Charms was typically one of the most popular classes, and practical lessons were usually at least somewhat chaotic.

The sixth years' first Charms practical of term was a warzone.

Under cover of practicing a nonverbal summoning spell, Mulciber turned a round-faced Hufflepuff girl's short blond hair into bright green snakes. She retaliated with a bat-bogey hex. Mulciber ducked, and the spell instead hit a Ravenclaw boy. His friends shouted in alarm. One tried to reverse the spell, while another fired a hex back at the Hufflepuff. His aim was poor, and instead he hit the desk in front of Lily Evans.

And then all hell broke loose.

James Potter immediately leapt to Lily's defense. She shouted at him to calm down, but had to break off to raise a shield around herself as more and more hexes began flying. James sent a hurling hex towards her accidental attacker. The Ravenclaw flew backwards and cried out as he landed painfully on his arm. A pale blue light shot from his wand as he fell, narrowly missing Snape. It instead hit a tall Hufflepuff boy whose long dreadlocks caught on fire. The girl with snakes for hair hurriedly cast an aguamenti to douse the flames.

Fred and George laughed. This was mayhem, and they loved it. It was _so_ much better than Charm was in their time. Fred took the opportunity to surreptitiously charm Sirius Black's robes bright pink while George covered them both with a shield.

"Enough!" Flitwick's high, squeaky voice rang out across the room. He swished his wand forcefully through the air, and a loud _bang_ reverberated through the room. Everyone fell silent, aside from a Ravenclaw boy who whimpered softly as he cradled a broken arm.

Flitwick glared at his students. For the first time, Fred could see the dueling champion in the mild-mannered Charms professor. "This is a NEWT Charms class, not an excuse to harm your peers!" he said. "Consider this your first and only warning. If another incident like this occurs in my class, I will confiscate your wands at the end of each lesson and check them for spells cast. Any student who casts any spell in my class other than the one assigned will receive detention at a minimum. Depending on the nature of the spell, harsher punishments will be assigned. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Professor," a few students murmured.

"Good," he said. "Mister Higgs, hospital wing." The Ravenclaw boy with the broken arm rose to leave. Flitwick began walked around the room, cancelling hexes. "And you, Miss Talbott," he said. The Hufflepuff girl with snake hair nodded and left as well. Flitwick moved on to the Slytherin side of the room With a wave of his wand, the leaks sprouting out of Jezebel Flourish's head turned back into ears. Flitwick quickly scanned the other students. "Does anyone else need to see Madam Pomfrey?" he asked. No one answered. "Good. Now, as a practical lesson seems ill-advised today, perhaps we can review some basic theory. Miss Evans, I recall seeing you cast a shield charm earlier. Perhaps you can explain why the protego is considered a charm rather than a conjuration?"

Lily flushed, but her voice was steady and clear as she said, "It's because it's made out of pure energy, sir. When something physical is created, the conjuration falls under transfiguration because it can theoretically be made permanent. You can't permanently create energy. When you create a shield, you're really transferring the energy from within yourself to manifest as a force outside yourself. The shield always remains liked to the caster."

"Exactly!" Flitwick squeaked. "Five points to Gryffindor. And Mister Vassilyev, why is the color-change charm considered a charm?"

Fred had no idea. He turned to George, who shrugged. "Because the new look is charming?" Fred suggested with a grin.

A few students – mostly Slytherins – laughed. Sirius Black – robes still pink – glared at him. "Oy!" he cried. "That was you?" Fred reflected that it might not have been a good idea to provoke the future mass murdering psychopath.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mister Vassilyev. And five from you, Mister Black," Flitwick said. He waved his wand, and Sirius's robes were restored to their usual color. "Can anyone else answer the question?"

The rest of the lesson could not end quickly enough.

* * *

It could not possibly be coincidence. Of all the students in Charms to jinx, the Gryffindor seer had chosen him. Whatever terrible thing he saw in Sirius's future was clearly something he blamed on Sirius himself. You don't target someone who dies horribly. Well, not unless you were a sadistic Death Eater or something, but the seer _wasn't_. But on the other hand, a color-change charm was harmless. It was a bit embarrassing, but that was it. If Sirius was going to do something horrific, surely the seer would have chosen a more powerful spell?

Or did the seer know something else? Would such a minor spell have a far-reaching effect? Sirius remembered overhearing Evans talk about how butterfly wings could cause hurricanes. At the time, he had shrugged it off as some bizarre muggle superstition. But now . . . could charming his robes pink prevent some future catastrophe?

Or was he reading too much into it? After all, _he_ had charmed others' clothes loads of times. Usually Snivellus, but sometimes someone else for a laugh. Never one of his mates, though.

It _had_ to mean something.

Didn't it?

Despite his words to his friends about leaving the seer alone, he needed to suss out what the other boy knew. But the seer's obvious animosity made it difficult, especially since he had clearly promised Dumbledore to keep quiet. Somehow, he doubted that going up to him and saying, "Hey, I know you despise me for something I haven't done yet, but I promise I won't do it if you just tell me what it is," would actually work. Was there some sort of formal etiquette covering these situations? There probably was. His parents had insisted that there was a pureblood rule for everything. Maybe he should have paid more attention. Sirius shook his head angrily at that thought.

 _Maybe I can find some other way of getting that information? Are seers susceptible to truth potions? Veritaserum is too hard and time-consuming to make, but maybe something weaker? And then obliviate him afterwards?_

 _Yes,_ he thought sarcastically, _because_ that _sort of behavior will definitely convince the seer that I'm not going to do whatever it is that I do._

"It's not like he'd remember it afterwards," he muttered to himself.

 _Mother would definitely approve of this plan._

Sometimes, Sirius hated his life.

 _Maybe there's some other way to find out?_

It was going to drive him crazy.

* * *

Defense class that afternoon was . . . odd. Professor Leona Lyall was an elderly witch of average height and build. She might have looked vaguely grandmotherly, if it had not been for a vicious scar bisecting her face. Apparently, she had grown bored after retiring as a hit wizard a few years ago, and had decided to reignite her life by teaching Defense at Hogwarts.

For her sake, George hoped that the DADA curse was not yet in effect.

For the first lesson, she had the students pair off. George immediately tried to partner with Fred, but Lyall stopped them. "Within your own House for now, if you please. I'd rather not deal with inter-House rivalries in your first class. Later in the term, perhaps."

Shrugging apologetically, Fred turned to a dark-skinned Gryffindor girl whose name George did not know. George looked around to see which Slytherins were still unpartnered.

"Vassilyev," Snape said.

 _Of course. He would be the only one left._

"Guess we're partners, Snape," George said brightly.

"Imagine my delight," the other boy replied drily. George grinned. _Looks like Snape actually had a sense of humor once._

"Today will be a bit of a diagnostic," Lyall said. "In each pair, one person should cast a stunning spell, while the other casts a shield. Then you switch."

"Just like Charms class, eh, Evans," James called out. A few students laughed as Lily flushed.

"Five points from Gryffindor," Lyall said at once. "Once you've proven you can handle that, move on to nonverbal stunners and shields. I'll observe and revive anyone who requires it. You may begin."

George looked at Snape. "I'll stun first?" he asked. Snape shrugged, and George caught a clear look at his face. He saw that the black eyes that he had noticed that morning seemed to have been healed. "Stupefy!" he cried. A jet of red light flew from his wand.

"Protego," Snape said. He sounded bored. The stunner bounced off Snape's shield, sending a few sparks into the air. "Stupefy."

"Prote-" George began, but he was too late. Snape's stunner hit him, and he toppled over.

"Welcome back, Mister Vassilyev," Lyall said. "Five points to Slytherin for that stunner, Mister Snape, and your earlier shield. Care to try again, but nonverbally?"

Snape nodded. George felt a bit uneasy. Snape was _fast_. He nodded anyway. He had almost two more months to learn silent casting, after all. He pointed his wand at Snape again and thought _Stupefy_.

A weak jet of red light flew from his wand. It hit Snape's equally silent shield. "Excellent work, both of you," Lyall said. "And now you, Mister Snape?"

This time, George was ready. Snape's silent stunner hit his shield, which wavered at its force. _Merlin, but Snape is good at this._

"Excellent!" Lyall beamed. "Take another five points, the pair of you. Keep practicing. Nonverbal only, now that I can see you're both able to do it." There was the sound of someone falling to the floor, and she bustled off to revive the stunned student.

George traded a few more stunners with Snape before he noticed something odd with the other boy. Snape's upper lip was split, and a bruise was forming on his left cheek. _How the hell did that happen? He looked fine at the start of class!_

"You okay there, Snape?" George asked. _Not something I ever thought I'd say._

Snape scowled. "And what is that supposed to mean?" he snapped.

George gestured vaguely at Snape's face. The other boy frowned, and then licked his bleeding lips. His brows knit as if he were only now noticing the injury. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, Vassilyev," he snarled.

"But –"

Snape's glare cut him off. "It's _nothing_ ," he hissed. His eyes flickered over to the professor.

George frowned, unwilling to drop it. "You were fine earlier," he whispered softly.

Snape whispered, "Muffliato." Louder, he said, "It's none of your damn business, Vassilyev. I don't interfere with _your_ life, do I?"

 _Not yet, but you will._ "I don't want to keep practicing if you're getting hurt from it," George insisted, even as he wondered what spell Snape had just cast. "I'm not sadistic."

"You have nothing to do with my condition. _Nothing_. I am perfectly fine."

"Spontaneous injuries are not fine!" George argued, far louder than he intended. No one seemed to notice, though. _Some sort of privacy spell,_ he guessed.

"I had no idea you were a healer, Vassilyev. I will say once more, my medical condition is no concern of yours." Snape's tone nearly matched the familiar low, deadly pitch the adult so often employed when he was furious and about to deduct a hundred points from Gryffindor. George recognized that it was time to back off. _Besides, Fred and I aren't supposed to interfere. Whatever's going on with Snape happened before, and he obviously recovered._

"Right. Sorry," George said. He tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. "Shall we get back to it?"

Snape nodded curtly, and cancelled the privacy charm, or whatever it was. _I need to learn that spell._

He was not prepared for Snape's stunner. When Lyall revived him again, he shook his head, feeling dazed. He glanced back at Snape, who was once again hiding his face behind his hair. The professor did not appear to notice anything amiss.

A few minutes later, the bell rang, and class disbursed.

* * *

When George saw Snape at dinner that evening, his sallow face was once more devoid of any sign of injury.

* * *

A/N:

Before I get reviews arguing the physics of energy vs. matter creation, the answer about how it works is simple: Magic.

And I will say that Snape is not using a glamour.

Please review!


	6. Chapter 6: Last Among Equals

"Normal speech"

 _Thoughts_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 6: Last Among Equals**

\- September 4, 1976 –

Fred and George did not have any classes on Thursdays. From speaking with the other students, they understood that only sixth-year students taking Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, or Muggle Studies had class that day. Apparently, most of the Slytherins and a small handful of the Gryffindors took NEWT Runes. Care of Magical Creatures was marginally more popular among the Gryffindors, and – to the twins' utter lack of surprise – none of the Slytherins took Muggle Studies.

Given the relative freedom of a class-free day, Fred and George found an empty classroom on the third floor and began plotting how to create a long-lasting tracking spell.

Three hours later, George no longer had eyebrows – transfigured or otherwise – and Fred's right sleeve was speckled with orange splotches. As first attempts went, the twins had experienced far worse. There weren't tentacles growing from anyone's elbows this time, after all. Congratulating themselves, they broke for lunch.

As they approached the Great Hall, they noticed a small crowd gathered around the entryway. They could just barely see the tip of Professor McGonagall's pointed hat. Drawing closer, they heard her say sharply, "Fifty points from Slytherin! Mister Lupin, please escort Mister Pettigrew to the hospital wing. As for you, Mister Snape, I think a trip to the headmaster's office is in order. Fighting in the corridors is _not_ tolerated in this school."

"I did not start the fight," the twins heard Snape reply. His low voice was practically vibrating with fury.

McGonagall snorted. "The headmaster's office," she repeated.

The crowd parted as Remus – nursing a sizable bruise on one cheek – half-carried a dazed and bleeding Peter Pettigrew away. A moment later, McGonagall – white-faced with fury – led Snape in the opposite direction. His black eyes glinted angrily in the torchlight.

With the show over, the crowd began to disperse. Most drifted into the Great Hall for lunch. Glancing at one another, the twins followed, eventually parting as they made their way to separate tables.

"Fifty points," Avery spat. "And that's on top of the other fifty Sprout took from him."

Rosier's eyes narrowed. "I am aware, Avery," he said. "But he won twenty-five yesterday, and there's still Artithmancy and Potions to go this week. He might yet earn a reprieve."

"I get first go if he doesn't," Mulciber said. Rosier nodded equably.

"What's this?" George asked.

"We've lost the House Cup eight years in a row," Rosier explained. "So we added some incentives to improve our chances."

"What sort of incentives?"

"You'll see," Mulciber said, smiling darkly.

Rosier shrugged. "The usual. Extra training opportunities for those who do well, extra punishments for those who don't."

From Mulciber's anticipatory expression, George doubted that it was something that simple.

"Nice work on Pettigrew, though," Wilkes noted.

Avery made a scoffing sound. "It was just Pettigrew," he said. "Not like he's much of a threat."

Wilkes shrugged. "Good spellwork is good spellwork. Bet you a galleon it was dark. And the little bastard was asking for it." He chuckled nastily. "He was practically crying at the end there."

* * *

"How's Wormtail?" James asked half an hour later as Remus – bruise healed – returned to the Gryffindor table alone.

"He'll be fine," Remus assured him. "Madam Pomfrey's still fixing him back up, but he should definitely be back by dinner. She thinks he might even be able to make it to Muggle Studies this afternoon."

"It's that bad?" Fred asked, eyes wide. Pomfrey could heal most injuries in just a few minutes.

"Dark magic isn't easy to fix," Sirius snarled. "Bastard should get expelled for this."

Remus shifted awkwardly. "Well, Peter _did_ attack first." James and Sirius stared at him incredulously. "What? You know he did."

"A tripping jinx is hardly the same thing as dark magic, Moony!" James protested.

"We don't know for sure that it was dark magic," Remus protested weakly.

Sirius snorted. "Right. And Snivellus will wash his hair and adopt fluffy white kittens next."

James nodded. "He's right, Moony. Snape's up to his greasy eyebrows in the dark arts. You can't pretend he's not. Remember that book Flitwick caught him with second year? And how many times has he snuck into the Restricted Section?"

"About as many was Evans has turned you down, mate," Sirius said.

"That was rhetorical, Padfoot, but thanks," James said.

"Anytime, Prongs, old boy."

Remus held up his hands. "Alright, fine. Maybe it was dark magic. If it was, let the professors deal with it."

"Of course," Sirius agreed at once.

"Absolutely," James agreed.

Fred grinned. Their ready agreement sounded all too familiar. _Like when George and I promise Mum we'll stay out of trouble._ His smile faded at the thought. Mum was alive, here and now, but she did not know them. She did not even realize they were gone. Or did she? Fred suddenly wondered if he and George would return to the same moment they had left, or if it would be days later. Or even longer than that. _Another thing to ask Dumbledore once he's finished his tests._

It was only later that evening that he realized that he had cast James and Sirius as twins, as close as he and George were to one another. Except that Sirius had betrayed – would betray – James. And Fred felt his hatred of the other boy grow. It became personal in a way that it had not quite been before Fred would side with George against the world, and he knew that George felt the same. There was no one more important. By betraying James Potter, Sirius Black mocked that bond. And Fred Weasley would see him pay.

* * *

After lunch, Fred and George returned to the unused classroom to continue their morning's experiments. After another few attempts, Fred suddenly said, "What about a map?"

"Like the Marauders' Map?" George asked. Fred nodded. "But that's ridiculously complicated – remember when we tried to replicate it?"

"I know," Fred said. "But think about it – we don't need anything that detailed. Just a single dot showing Black."

"It'd have to cover the entire country. More, if he's fled."

Fred sighed. "You're right."

"But maybe we don't need an actual _map_ ," George said slowly. "Maybe a compass instead?"

Fred smiled. "With something to show distance. Yeah, George. Yeah, I think that might work. Didn't Alicia once say her mum used a compass to find her when she got lost as a kid?"

"I think so. And I remember seeing something like that in Diagon a few times. Not sure how good the range is. Can't be too good, or the aurors would have used them already."

"Or Black found some way to block it," Fred noted.

George paused. "Maybe. How do you counter unknown dark magics?"

"With good will and a pure heart?" Fred suggested.

"Check the library?" George asked.

"I feel dirty," Fred replied, shaking his head even as he gathered his things. "The sacrifices we make, voluntarily entering the root of all evils."

"A true test of our Gryffindor courage."

"Shut it, Slytherin scum."

* * *

"Merlin's beard, Wormtail, what were you thinking?" James demanded when Peter finally returned from the hospital wing, midway through dinner. "Attacking Snape by yourself? You _know_ he's up to his ears in dark magic."

Peter smiled weakly. "But I won," he protested.

"You got your arse handed to you, Pete," Sirius said. "You missed Care of Magical Creatures _and_ Muggle Studies."

Peter shook his head. "Pomfrey patched me up in the end. But Snape got sent to the headmaster's office. Is he even back yet?"

Feodor shook his head even as Sirius replied, "Haven't seen his ugly mug since the fight."

At that, Peter's smile widened. His beady eyes shone with triumph. "You see?" he asked rhetorically. "I won."

James laughed. "Good on you, mate," he said. More seriously, he added, "But be careful. Snape's dangerous. You could have been really hurt."

Peter felt a swelling of pride at James's praise, but it crumpled at his friend's tone. _You wouldn't be saying this f Sirius or Remus had attacked Snape. You think I'm weak, even if you don't say it. But you'll see. I'm going to be a hero some day. And no one will think I'm too weak and scared for Gryffindor then._ More petulantly than he would have liked, he said, "I can handle Snape."

"Sure you can," Sirius said, laughing. Peter flushed.

"Pass the potatoes, would you?" Remus interjected. Peter felt a stab of gratitude for his friend for cutting off the teasing.

"What was that curse he used, anyway?" James asked.

Peter shrugged. "No clue. But every time Pomfrey tried to fix me up, it moved on to something else. She'd fix my arm, and then my leg would start bleeding. It was weird. Eventually Dumbledore had to step in. He looked really grim, too."

Sirius whistled. "Told you it was dark arts, Moony," he said.

"You're really okay now, though, right?" James asked.

"Yeah. Like I said, Pomfrey patched me up in the end. It wasn't so bad." It _had_ been, though. Whatever that spell was had _hurt_. A lot. And there were those terrifying times after Pomfrey had healed one wound and another one suddenly appeared. And then she couldn't figure out how to fix it on her own, making Peter worry that he might be like that _forever_ , caught in a never-ending cycle of healing and pain. Fortunately, Dumbledore had figured out what to do and the nurse had healed him in the end.

Peter did not want to mention how scared he had been, though. The others would just look down on him even more. Besides, he was going to be a war hero. So he smiled and said, "And who knows, maybe Snape'll get expelled for this. One less Death Eater here, you know?" He hoped so, at least. That would make it all worthwhile. James and Sirius had been after Snape for ages, trying to stop the evil dark wizard before he got too powerful. It would be amazing if he was the one who finally succeeded. Small, overlooked Peter. He smiled a bit as he imagined it.

Feodor frowned. Peter did not think the others caught it, but he did. _What did that mean?_

"You don't know that," Remus protested, but he did not seem very convinced.

"Come off it, Moony!" James said, sounding annoyed. "He's always hanging around Mulciber and those other creeps. He knows more dark curses than practically anyone! Feodor, your twin's in Slytherin. You tell him."

They turned to Feodor, who seemed momentarily uncomfortable. "Er, Gustav says he's the least bad of the lot," he said. "He hasn't mentioned anything about Snape being a pureblood nutter or attending junior Death Eater meetings or anything like that. He just sort of keeps to himself."

"Are there junior Death Eater meetings?" Remus asked, surprised.

Feodor shrugged. "No idea. If there are, Gustav certainly hasn't seen any."

"They probably just realize he isn't evil trash like them," Sirius said. "Or it's too early in the year."

"Or there aren't any meetings," Remus added reasonably.

Sirius made a scoffing sound. "Do you really think they don't try and recruit at school?" Because it's not just my dear mum who's been filling Reg's head with that crap."

 _I could find out,_ Peter thought. _In my animagus form. They'd never realize I was there_.

* * *

When Snape finally reappeared in the Slytherin common room that evening, Jezebel Flourish raised her head from where it had been poring over her homework and asked, "So, they didn't expel you, then?" Her shiny prefect's badge glinted from where it was pinned on her well-endowed chest. It was an unusually provocative angle, and George could not help but stare. He felt his ears heat up.

Snape snorted. "No."

"Suspended?"

"No."

"Pity." And with that, Flourish returned to her homework. A few students laughed.

"So where were you all day, then?" Rosier asked.

Snape shrugged, letting his hair fall in front of his face. "Dumbledore's office. The usual lecture about not fighting in the halls, as if I'm ever the one who starts the fights. The usual checks to make sure I didn't actually cast anything dark."

"You didn't?" Wilkes asked, surprised.

"Of course not," Snape snapped. "Use your brain, Wilkes. They always check. It was just a simple triple-layered hex with a recursive matrix added on, barely more than a modified diffindo."

"Right, simple," Rosier agreed drily, to a few chuckles. Wilkes reached into a pocket and wordlessly handed Avery a galleon. "But that should have had you down within an hour at most, not gone for seven hours."

Snape scowled through his curtain of hair. "Dumbledore decided I needed yet another lecture about how I should have waited for a professor, as if _that_ ever works. Then he gave the usual warnings about how I'm treading a dangerous path and that further misconduct will have serious repercussions. And then he gave me detention with Filch. Which is where I was. And where I'll be tomorrow. And Saturday. And Sunday."

"But didn't Peter – er, Pettigrew start it?" George asked, surprised. Several of the Slytherins laughed mirthlessly. A few gave him pitying looks.

"He got a day in the hospital wing," Snape snapped. "The headmaster considered that punishment enough." With that, he slouched off towards the sixth-year boys' dormitory.

"He's a Gryffindor. By definition, it's never their fault," an older girl with curly blond hair added drily.

George frowned. That did not match his experience at all. He and Fred were always getting into trouble for one thing or another. If someone pulled a prank, they were always the first suspects, whether they were guilty or not.

"Montague's right," a dark-haired boy with a prefect's badge said. "Test it, if you don't believe us. You've got a twin in Gryffindor, right? I bet you a galleon that if he casts a minor hex in front of professor, he'd get – maybe – a day's detention. But if you cast the same hex, you'll get three."

"You can't be serious!" George spluttered. _Although that would at least explain Snape's future detention policies, if that's how it is now._

"No, that's my older ex-brother," the prefect replied. "I'm Regulus. And I'm not joking. Sirius – he's a year older than I am, and in Gryffindor – played a few 'pranks' on me last year. I defended myself. Guess which one of us got the longer detention and lost the most House points? Never mind that he's older or that he started it." He shrugged. "Welcome to Slytherin, Vassilyev. Where you're guilty until proven innocent."

* * *

A/N:

Feel free to skip the author's note if you don't care about course schedule information. I had to write down a list regardless to keep things consistent, so in case you do care:

 **Sixth-Year Weekly Schedules:**

Day: Morning class, afternoon class

Monday: Herbology, Divination, Astronomy (midnight)

Tuesday: Transfiguration, History of Magic

Wednesday: Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts

Thursday: Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies

Friday: Artithmancy, Potions

 **Individual Sixth-Year Schedules:**

Taking 5 NEWT classes is normal. Taking 4 suggests that you are an academic underachiever and/or weak at magic. Taking 6 or more implies that you are an overachiever.

All of these are either directly mentioned in canon or are related to canon characters. Showing only sixth-years who have been named so far:

Name (# of classes): Class list

Gryffindor

Fred Weasley (5): Divination, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Potions

James Potter (5): Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Potions

Sirius Black (5): Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Potions

Remus Lupin (6): Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies

Peter Pettigrew (4): Transfiguration, Defense, Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies

Lily Evans (7): Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, Potions

Mary Macdonald (5): Herbology, Astronomy, Charms, Defense, Care of Magical Creatures

Slytherin

George Weasley (5): Divination, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Potions

Severus Snape (8): Herbology, Astronomy, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Potions

Evan Rosier (6): Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Potions

Mulciber (4): Charms, Defense, Care of Magical Creatures, Arithmancy

Avery (4): Herbology, Transfiguration, Defense, Ancient Runes

Wilkes (4): Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Potions

Jezebel Flourish (6): Transfiguration, History of Magic, Charms, Defense, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy

Hufflepuff

Talbott (6): Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Ancient Runes, Potions

Ravenclaw

Bell (5): Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies

Higgs (5): Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Arithmancy, Potions

Please review!


	7. Chapter 7: School Records

"Normal speech"

 _Thoughts_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 7: School Records**

\- September 5, 1976 –

Fred's eyebrows rose when George relayed the conversation that took place in the Slytherin common room the previous evening. "You really think Slytherins get harsher punishments?" he asked his twin.

George shrugged. "I don't want to," he said. "But . . . well, Snape _was_ the only one punished for that fight yesterday. He got four days' detention, and he wasn't the one who started it."

"Peter was in the hospital wing for hours," Fred reminded him. "Snape used dark magic to make new wounds appear after Pomfrey healed the original ones."

George shook his head. "It wasn't dark magic," he said.

"It wasn't?" Fred was surprised. The Marauders had been very certain that it was.

"Dumbledore checked Snape's wand," George explained.

"Huh." That was unusual. Fred could not recall any instances of the headmaster checking wands before. "But still, Peter got a lot more hurt than Snape did. It makes sense that Snape'd be punished more."

"I know, but . . . well, it makes me uncomfortable," George admitted. "They – the Slytherins, I mean – really seem to think that the professors favor the other Houses."

"In fairness, the other Houses aren't lining up to join You-Know-Who," Fred snapped.

"Please, Fred?" George asked. Fred looked at him for a moment. It felt horribly disorientating not being in firm agreement with his twin, like he was off-balance. Was it George being in Slytherin that caused it, or just them being apart for the first time in their lives?

"Alright," he agreed reluctantly. "I have to say, though, that this is the second time this week you've come out defending Snape. It's bloody bizarre."

* * *

"Put your wands down!" a girl's voice called out from down the hall. Fred and George turned to face her, lowering their wands from where they had been pointing at one another. It was the blond, round-faced Hufflepuff girl whose hair Mulciber had turned into snakes in Charms class two days ago. A prefect's badge gleamed from just below her right shoulder. She frowned as she looked at them. "Just what do you two think you're doing?" she asked.

"Nothing," Fred said quickly.

"Hmmm," the Hufflepuff said slowly. "You do realize there's no magic allowed in the halls, right?"

"It's not?" George asked, eyes comically wide.

The girl snorted. "Right. So now that we've established that both of you are bollocks at lying, what were you doing, really?"

"Well, you see –" Fred began.

" – we were conducting an experiment," George finished. The Hufflepuff prefect simply raised her eyebrows expectantly, so he continued, "I'd heard a rumor that Gryffindors and Slytherins don't get treated equally."

"Which doesn't seem fair," Fred added. "Though I still maintain it's an unfounded accusation."

George shrugged. "Probably is."

"But if it's not –"

" – we want to find out."

The girl stared at them for a second and then burst into laughter. "Alright," she said, "I'll grant you that's a new one."

"We're serious!" Fred protested, although he was grinning at her reaction. It always felt good to make someone laugh, even if – this time – he had no idea what had prompted it.

"Oh, I know," she said, still chuckling. "That's what makes it so funny. You're so very earnest about it, even with your ridiculous back-and-forth dialog. But you're going about it all the wrong way. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were _both_ Gryffindors."

"And would that be so very bad?" George asked, grinning.

"The wrong way?" Fred asked.

"Sure," she said. "I mean, yes, you _might_ get caught by a professor, but they'd be only too likely to assign you the same punishment if they catch _identical twins_ going at one another, unless it's really obvious that only was of you was in the wrong. And I guess you could find a third volunteer for each of you to cast some minor jinx on, but even that's going to get problematic. I mean, generally speaking, whichever student gets caught first would get off lighter, since the professor would feel more annoyed seeing the same thing play out a second time, right?"

"Huh," George said.

"Didn't think of that," Fred admitted.

"What would you suggest, then?"

"Go to Filch and ask to see the records of recent point losses and detentions," she replied immediately.

They goggled at her.

"Go to Filch," Fred repeated, disbelieving. She had seemed sane until now.

"Willingly?" George added.

She shrugged. "Why not? I mean, he's not exactly _nice_ , but he's not so bad if you're not a troublemaker."

"We are troublemakers!" the twins replied in unison.

The prefect only laughed again. "So I see. Very honest troublemakers, too. But you're new students, and I don't think you've done anything to annoy Filch yet, so you should be fine."

Fred blinked. That was a strange thought. They _hadn't_ done anything to annoy Filch yet. Not in this timeline, at least.

"Seems like an awful lot of work, though," he said slowly but not dismissively. They could do a lot with access to Filch's office. That's how he and George had gotten the Marauders' Map, after all.

The girl shrugged. "Well, I am a Hufflepuff. We value hard work."

"You'd help?"

"I already did," she replied. "I pointed you in the right direction, didn't I? And didn't give you detention for magic in the corridors." She tapped her badge. "I _am_ a prefect, after all."

"Not like any prefect I've ever seen," Fred muttered, thinking of Percy.

"Well, Gryffindor prefects tend to try too hard," she said, shrugging. "Or they don't try at all. But they have a lot more mayhem to keep in line than we do, so I figure they either become martinets or collaborators out of self-preservation."

Fred and George stared at her. "We're not that bad!" George protested.

She raised an eyebrow. "Says the Slytherin twin."

Oops. Fred glanced at George, whose ears had turned red in embarrassed realization.

"Let me guess, you swapped uniforms?" she asked.

"Er," George said.

But she only laughed and tapped her nose. "Right. Well, I'll let it go this time. But don't let me catch you at it again."

"Right," Fred said. "You won't catch us."

"Thanks," George added.

"No problem. Good luck with Filch," she said, turning to leave.

"Hey, wait!" George called. She paused, turning back to face them. "What's your name?"

"Alice. Alice Talbott."

George held out his hand, and she shook it. "Feodor Vassilyev," he said.

"And Gustav Vassilyev," Fred added.

"A pleasure, I'm sure. Now run along before I really do give you detention."

* * *

Filch eyed the twins warily. "You want to see that why?" he demanded after they had made their request.

"Well, we're new here," the Gryffindor twin said.

"We want to make sure we understand the rules and how things work," the Slytherin twin added.

"And the headmaster did say at the welcome feast –"

" – that you, er, had lists and things here."

Filch snorted. That would be the day. Little blighters never came to see the list of banned goods. And asking to see punishment logs? Absolutely unheard of. No, they were plotting something. He could feel it in his bones.

Not that it mattered. Maybe it would put some fear into them. "Alright," he said irritably. He pointed to a cabinet. "Don't mess up the order. I'll know if you do, and detention will be the least of your worries."

"Yes, sir."

"Understood, sir."

"Thank you, sir."

Smarmy little buggers. But at least they were being polite, so he let it go.

* * *

That Hufflepuff prefect had been right. Fred and George were amazed by how cooperative Filch had been, even if he did glare and huff at them a bit when they'd shown up. Looking through the records, the twins soon realized three things.

First, sorting through paperwork was boring.

Second, some professors were a lot more detailed in their write ups than others. Professor Vector tended to list the bare minimum – detentions "for fighting" or "for inattention" were common. Professor Babbling, on the other hand, provided far more information, often in long, convoluted sentences that they had to re-read a few times to make sense of.

Third, Regulus Black was right.

In seven cases out of ten, a Slytherin was punished more harshly than a Gryffindor was for the same offense. It was rarely too overt – a few extra points here, an extra night of detention there – but the trend was all too clear. And sometimes it _was_ overt. Walmond Wilkes – "So _that's_ his first name," George muttered – had lost sixty points and gotten four days' detention for smuggling firewhiskey into the castle last December. James Potter and Sirius Black had gotten caught for the exact same offense in February, but had lost Gryffindor only thirty points _combined_ and gotten one detention each. At first, the twins were tempted to write it off as being caught by different professors, but on closer inspection, it had been McGonagall both times.

McGonagall. She had a reputation for being fair. For not favoring her own House. If even she was biased . . . .

"Maybe she changed?" George suggested.

"Maybe," Fred agreed. He shook his head. "I can't believe your Slytherins were right."

" _My_ Slytherins?" George asked in mock offense.

"Do you reckon Dumbledore knows?"

"He must, right? I mean, he's Dumbledore. He knows everything."

"Maybe," Fred said dubiously. "But he's also fair, isn't he?"

"Is he?" George asked, frowning. "Remember our third yet?"

Fred blinked. "What about it?"

"Remember how we own the House Cup?" Fred thought back. He frowned as George continued, "Slytherin won, fair and square. Then Dumbledore gave out some end-of-term points to Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Neville at the last minute."

"They deserved it!" Fred protested. "For that thing with You-Know-Who and Quirrell."

"Absolutely," George agreed. And he meant it. "But imagine if you were in Slytherin. They were going to break the record for most consecutive wins, weren't they? And they did win, and then, suddenly, they didn't."

"I'd be upset," Fred said slowly. "Really upset. That's a really crummy thing to do at the last minute, now I think about it."

George nodded. "Worse than just losing normally would have been. I mean, he could have given those points out earlier, couldn't he? A day or two before feast, at least. I was happy about it, of course, glad to see us win."

"Of course," Fred agreed. "But still, thinking about it –"

" – it wasn't really all that fair, was it?"

"No. No, it wasn't."

* * *

Fred and George entered the Potions classroom and looked around. Despite being the same one that Snape had taught in, the room had a very different atmosphere. It was more brightly lit, and large tables were set up for several students to share, rather than smaller ones to promote individual work. Four cauldrons of varying sizes bubbled up at the front of the room.

A few other students were already seated. Some Ravenclaws sat at a table near the door, while Alice Talbott sat by herself near the front of the class. Wilkes and Rosier sat with two Slytherin girls at one table on the far side of the room, while Snape sat alone near the center. He glanced at the door as the twins entered, then returned to gathering his supplies from his book bag.

Alice nodded towards them, smiling slightly. Shrugging, the twins approached her. "You likely to explode anything?" she asked.

"Who, us?" Fred replied. She laughed easily.

"You can sit with me, then," she said. "I'm the only 'Puff in our year taking Potions."

"Thanks," George said, sitting to her left. Fred joined him a moment later.

"Find anything interesting?" she asked.

"You could say that," Fred said darkly.

"That bad?"

George nodded. "Definite trend."

Alice frowned. "Let me see your notes. I'll tell you what I think we can do." They stared at her. "What? I _am_ a prefect, after all. And a Hufflepuff. We value fair play."

"No, it's not that," Fred said.

"We didn't take notes," George explained.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course not." Turning to Fred, she said, "You're the most Gryffindor-ish Slytherin I've ever met."

"I _am_ a Gryffindor," Fred said.

"You swap eyebrows since this morning?" Alice asked.

"What?" George asked, before remembering how yesterday's experiments had burned his off. "Yes, of course, we did" he said haughtily. "It's the little details, you know."

"Would blow the whole masquerade if we didn't," Fred added.

Alice tapped her nose. "Fair enough." She turned to George. "In that case, _you're_ the most Gryffindor-ish Slytherin I've ever met."

"Thank you," George said, bowing in his seat.

She shook her head ruefully. "Well, should you ever bother to bring me some tangible proof, I'll take a look and see what can be done."

"You're a bit assertive for a Hufflepuff, you know that?"

Alice snorted. "Yes, because we're all such pushovers. Haven't you even heard of Auror Bones?"

"Amelia Bones?" Fred asked. She was the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in their time, making her Dad's boss.

"That's the one. She was a Hufflepuff. Didn't stop her from becoming Head Auror, did it? And you don't mess with her, not if you know what's good for you."

Fred detected a definite note of hero worship in Alice's voice. He held up his hands. "I surrender," he said.

"Good."

The door to the classroom opened, and Lily Evans entered. Snape gazed at her hopefully, and she paused for a moment, dithering, before turning decidedly to Alice and the twins as if she had not seen him. "Mind if I sit here?" she asked.

Alice glanced at Snape, who had dropped his head, hiding his face behind his hair. She shrugged. "Fine by me," she said.

Lily glanced at Fred and George. "No skin off my nose," George said.

"Thanks."

The door opened again, and James and Sirius entered, chatting. They looked around the room. "Oy, Snivellus, can't find anyone willing to sit with you?" Sirius taunted. Snape frowned and gripped his wand tightly in one hand, but he said nothing. Beside Alice, Lily pursed her lips, but she remained silent.

"Come on, Sirius, let's get some seats before Slughorn assigns us ones," James said.

"Yeah, don't want to risk getting grease all over me," Sirius agreed. He and James headed over to a table with two Ravenclaws, who welcomed them with a nod.

At last, the bell rang. A minute later, the door opened, and an enormous, bald old man with a huge walrus-like mustache entered the classroom. He took roll, beaming as he called some students' names. Despite being the Head of Slytherin, nothing in his demeanor indicated any preference for one House over the others.

"Before we begin today," Slughorn boomed happily, "let's see how much you remember since the last term. Now, I don't expect any of you to be able to brew these yet, but some of you might be able to recognize these beauties." He gestured at the four cauldrons at the front of the class, and then pointed to the one closest to the far side of the room, near where Rosier and Wilkes sat. "Can anyone tell me what this potion is?" Rosier, Snape, Lily, Alice, and two of the Ravenclaws raised their hands. "Miss Evans," Slughorn called.

"It's amortensia, sir," she said clearly. "The most powerful love potion in the world."

"Excellent. Take five points for Gryffindor. And this one?" Slughorn asked, indicating the cauldron to its right. Fred and George peered to look, but it seemed like ordinary water. This time, only Snape, Lily, and Alice raised their hands. "Miss Talbott."

"Veritaserum, Professor. A Ministry-regulated truth serum."

"Well done! Five points to Hufflepuff. And this one?" Slughorn indicated a cauldron containing a thick sludge-like liquid. Again, only Snape, Lily, and Alice raised their hands. "And Miss Evans again," Slughorn said, smiling genially.

"It's polyjuice potion, sir. It allows the drinker to take on the appearance of someone else."

"Bravo, take another five points. And this final one?" Slughorn indicated the final cauldron, which was far smaller than the others. It was filled with a shining, golden liquid. This time, only Snape raised his hand. Slughorn sighed. "Mister Snape," he said, sounding resigned. George recalled that Snape had implied that he was not one of Slughorn's favorites. _Was this what he meant?_

"Felix felicis, known colloquially as 'liquid luck,'" Snape answered. "Although a more accurate description would be 'borrowed luck.' A single swallow of this potion grants the drinker extreme good fortune for approximately one hour. Afterwards, karmic balance re-adjusts, and the drinker will often experience extreme ill fortune for a period commensurate with the level of improbability exploited while under the initial effects of the felix felicis."

Fred and George had not been alone in staring hungrily at the golden potion as Snape began his response, but as he continued speaking, they – and the others in the class – shook their heads in disappointment.

"Er, yes," Slughorn said. He seemed thrown off his stride for some reason. "Quite correct, Mister Snape. Five points to Slytherin." He glanced around the room and seemed to recover some of his previous good cheer. "Now today, you'll all be brewing the Draught of Living Death. Please turn to page 69 of your textbooks and begin!"

Fred and George rose with the others to gather ingredients from the front of the room. Returning to their seats, they began preparing the infusion of wormwood according to the recipe in their book. It was a bit odd to be checking the textbook rather than the blackboard, but not too different. Then Fred frowned as he read the third step.

"Ge-Gustav," he said softly, "does this look right?" They had brewed the Draught a few months ago in Snape's class, but he could not recall the exact recipe they had used.

George looked down at it and frowned. "I thought we were supposed to crush the sopophorus bean," he said.

Lily turned to them, surprised. "That would release the juice better," she said, sounding impressed.

"Would it?" Alice asked as she struggled with her own bean.

"Sev, I mean Snape, mentioned it last year, when we were studying for OWLs," Lily admitted.

Alice glanced at Snape, who was sitting alone at his table, working furiously. Fred and George followed her glance and noticed that he had several crushed beans on his workstation. "Okay, then," Alice said, crushing her bean. It released a lot of juice, but less than the twins would have expected.

"I still feel like we're missing something else," George said.

"Yeah. Can't remember what, though."

Shrugging, they returned to their potion. By the end of class, they each had a light purple mixture. Lily's was slightly bluer, matching the lilac of the second-to-last stage, while the twins' potions were closer to lavender. Alice's was a slightly darker shade than theirs, but Slughorn seemed pleased by all four as he made his rounds. "An excellent first attempt, all of you," he boomed. "Take five points each. And ten for you, Miss Evans, for your near-perfect potion. A few more minutes, and I daresay you'd have finished, yes? Take a look, everyone," he added, ladling a bit and then dropping it back into the cauldron for the rest of the class to see.

James wolf-whistled, and Sirius clapped as he called out, "Oh, bravo, Evans! Good show!"

Slughorn chuckled and then waddled off to look at the other students' attempts. He criticized Wilkes for mediocre work – his potion was, apparently, a dark green – but gave Rosier five points for a decent attempt. As he reached Snape's cauldron, he ladled some up as he had Lily's. It was clear, just like the textbook said it should be. "Acceptable as ever, Mister Snape. Five points."

Fred and George glanced at one another. Snape's potion had been the best in the class, and he had been the only one to finish. Even so, Lily had earned more points. No one else in the room seemed surprised.

 _Even the Head of Slytherin is biased against his own_ , George thought.

* * *

Sirius Black took unusual care not to jostle any of his fellow classmates with his book bag as he left the Potions classroom. In the scramble to gather ingredients, no one had noticed him pause next to one of Slughorn's cauldrons and fill a small vial with the colorless, odorless potion it contained. He would only need a few drops, and the seers would tell him everything he needed to know. And then he could avoid whatever terrible fate lurked in his future.

* * *

A/N:

I know I'm not the first to write felix felicis as causing temporary good luck followed by bad luck, but it's the only way I can make sense of it. Without some major side effects (beyond the perils of overuse), there is no good reason for it not being used far more often by both sides in the war.

For the Draught of Living Death, the twins forgot a few steps, including using a silver knife on the bean (rather than a regular knife) and the modified stirring pattern.

Regarding update schedules, I will try to update at least once every 2 weeks. If possible, I will update more often than that. Don't expect more than 2 posts per week. No set posting days, although Wednesdays and weekends are most likely.


	8. Chapter 8: Talking Points

"Normal speech"

 _Thoughts_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 8: Talking Points**

At dinner that night, a tall, blond Gryffindor boy with a Head Boy pin handed Fred a small sealed note. "What's this?" Fred asked, trying and failing to remember the other boy's name.

The Head Boy shrugged. "Message from the headmaster. I've got another one for your brother."

"Thanks." Fred opened the letter. _Please meet me in my office at eight o'clock this evening. P.S. I enjoy cauldron cakes._

And so, at eight o'clock, Fred and George stood outside the great stone gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office. After giving the password, the climbed the spiral staircase and knocked on the office door.

"Enter," Dumbledore's voice called from within. They opened the door to see the headmaster seated at his desk. "Thank you for coming. Please, take a seat." He indicated two chairs sin front of his desk. Fred and George sat. "My goodness," he said to George upon getting a clearer look at him. "What have you done with your eyebrows?"

George laughed. "Well, you see –"

" – we thought we might need some way to differentiate ourselves."

"It _is_ getting a little old, though."

"I see," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "May I?" He raised his wand, and George nodded. With a wave, George's eyebrows regrew. After another flick, Dumbledore re-transfigured them to a non-descript brown. "How are you two settling in?"

"Er, well enough," Fred said.

"I sense some reticence there, my boy. Anything I should be concerned about?"

Fred and George exchanged glances. "If we found out something here that we didn't know from the future, would telling you mess with the timeline?" George asked.

"You know, I'm not certain," Dumbledore said genially, seemingly unperturbed by Fred and George's dismayed reaction. "Sometimes, the smallest change can have the largest effect, and yet if you are not deliberately trying to change your past, it might be harmless. I take it there _is_ something you wish to raise with me?"

Fred nodded. "Did you know that the different Houses don't get punished equally?" he blurted.

"Well, I daresay that Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff have, of late, mostly managed to avoid too much mischief," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling.

"No, not that," George said. "What we mean is – "

" – a Gryffindor like me would get off easier than – "

" – a Slytherin would for the same offense."

Dumbledore's white eyebrows rose. "I was not aware that either of you had gotten into any trouble so far, barring the rather exciting scuffle in your Charms class. Might I ask what prompted this?"

"That fight yesterday, between Snape and Pettigrew," George said.

"Peter got off," Fred said, "but Snape didn't."

Dumbledore frowned. "Mister Pettigrew spent the afternoon and much of the evening in the hospital wing after Mister Snape attacked him," he said.

"But you see – "

" – the thing is – "

" – Peter attacked him first."

"I fear you are both laboring under a misapprehension," Dumbledore said gently. "Professor McGonagall heard from several witnesses that Mister Snape launched an unprovoked attack on Mister Pettigrew."

"What?" Fred asked, surprised. "But Peter admitted he cast the first spell at dinner. A tripping jinx."

"Did he indeed?" Dumbledore asked.

Fred nodded firmly. "You can do that thing you did before, to check my memory if you don't believe me."

The headmaster blinked in momentary startlement. "That is a remarkable show of trust, my boy. Thank you." He stared into Fred's eyes for a long moment. In his mind's eye, Fred caught a glimpse of dinner the previous evening, followed by his and George's research in Filch's office that afternoon. There was a brief flash of Gryffindor winning the House Cup in their third year, and then Dumbledore abruptly broke contact. He appeared shaken. His lined face had turned ashen.

"My apologies," he said. His tone lacked its usual calm. "I saw far more than I had intended. It would, I think, be wisest not to repeat our actions here today, for risk of further damage to the timeline." He sighed, looking suddenly very old and tired. "I fear I owe Mister Snape an apology. And perhaps all of Slytherin House. I wonder, how many times did we cast the blame unjustly? To reward and punish in unequal measure? And to see that it continues for so long, that I perpetuate the cycle . . . ." His voice trailed off, and he shook himself, as if only just remembering Fred and George's presence. It was unsettling to see the great man seem so uncertain, so . . . human.

"Regardless, I thank you for bringing this to my attention," he said. "I will ensure that Mister Snape's punishment is reduced. Now, I think it would be best to go over what I have found out about your visit to our time."

The twins nodded, their disturbance at Dumbledore's reaction melting into eagerness to learn when they would be able to return home.

"Very well. I have both good news and bad news, I am afraid. The good news is that you will both be able to return home with minimal difficulty. Indeed, the process should be entirely automatic. Unfortunately, the bad news is that it will take rather longer than I had hoped for this to come about."

"How long?" George asked nervously.

"Several months," Dumbledore admitted. "I would guess late January or early February."

The twins let out identical sighs of relief. They had been thinking it might take _years_.

"And will we return to the same time we left?" Fred asked.

"To the very minute, if my calculations are correct," Dumbledore agreed.

Fred and George smiled. If they were here until early February, they would be seventeen years old once they returned to their own time. They would be able to cross Dumbledore's age line and enter the Triwizard Tournament after all.

* * *

Once the twins had left his office, Albus crumpled into his chair and buried his head in his hands. He should never have taken Feodor up on his offer to be legilimized. The risk was far too great. He _knew_ that, and if he merely paused to think, he would never have agreed. Barring outside influence, he surely would have refused.

 _The timeline. It is actively fighting to assert itself._

That last memory of the boy's, of the Leaving Feast, haunted him. First and foremost, he could not comprehend being so cruel as to award the House Cup, only to snatch it back a moment later. And the celebration of the other three Houses only made the blow worse. To see Hogwarts still so divided, years later, and to know that he played a part in it . . . . Albus shook his head. He could not imagine any normal circumstances in which he would act so callously towards his students.

But perhaps that was the point.

He would not do that under normal circumstances. And yet, for some reason, he had. And, he knew, he would again, despite the obvious moral wrongness of it. At all costs, he needed to maintain the timeline.

It did, however, point to a temporal paradox. The twins were _meant_ to go back in time. All thoughts of removing them for the integrity of their timeline vanished when he saw that memory.

The glimpse, brief as it was, bothered him for another reason as well. Unless he was very much mistaken, against all logic and reason, _Severus Snape_ was seated at the staff table. In the seat traditionally reserved for the school's third-in-command, right after the deputy headmaster or headmistress. Which presumably meant that Albus did not, in fact, expel him.

Had someone told him that this morning, he would have commended their optimism while privately doubting their grasp on reality. It wasn't even just the fights, although they were bad enough, but the illicit brewing and, if Albus were honest, the likelihood of Tom recruiting him. If Severus Snape were destined to become a Death Eater, better he be a half-trained one. Even Horace Slughorn, despite admitting the boy's talent, had given up championing him in staff meetings years ago and now seemed resigned about his future prospects.

And yet he clearly was _not_ a future Death Eater. Albus would never let him teach at Hogwarts, never entrust him with children, if he had joined Tom.

Then again, he would have said that we would never bestow the House Cup only to withdraw it a moment later.

 _The paradox effect. I might only appoint him because I_ know _that I appoint him. Even if he does become a Death Eater, I dare not change the course of events._

Then again, there was the astounding knowledge that young Peter Pettigrew had started the fight yesterday. It forced Albus to reevaluate what he knew – and what he thought he knew – about the young Slytherin. Putting his wand to his temple, he extracted memory after memory before diving into his pensieve.

 _So many visits to this office. So many fights. And, yes, mostly Gryffindor witnesses. Mostly skirmishes with young James or Sirius, with sometimes Peter or Remus involved as well. Or with Peter and Remus as witnesses. And, yes, Remus_ does _look a bit uncomfortable when he confirms that Snape attacked first. Why did I not notice this before?_

 _Probably because four voices are louder than one, and no one stood up for young Severus. And,_ his conscience added, _because James and Sirius are charming and charismatic, and Severus Snape is not._ That sort of thing should not matter, of course, but Albus was old enough and wise enough to admit that anyone could be influenced, even he. Snape was an unpleasant, disagreeable young man, so unlike the Gryffindors he regularly came into conflict with, and Albus feared that he had let the boy's disposition color his judgment.

 _Where are his Housemates in these fights?_

More memories, of Snape sitting in the Great Hall, of walking down the corridors.

 _He sits apart from his Slytherin yearmates at meal times. And yet he is rather close to Lily Evans, despite her birth. Or he was. I understand they had something of a falling out last term, although I have heard very mixed accounts as to the specifics. Perhaps not a Death Eater recruit then, if he cares for muggleborns._

Albus sighed. He had, in retrospect, treated the young man most unfairly. And all of Slytherin House had suffered under his administration, as Filch's records attested. He would need to speak with his staff about that. For all that Tom's followers were largely Slytherin alumni, it was not fair to punish the current students for the crimes of their predecessors. They were children, and blaming the larger political situation on them would only drive them to Tom in ever-larger numbers. He hoped from the twins' surprise at the injustice of it that it did not carry on into the future. But in the memory, he seen _both_ twins at the Gryffindor table, in Gryffindor uniforms, cheering on Gryffindor's victory. Perhaps they simply had not known.

With another sigh, Albus sent his silvery phoenix patronus to summon Minerva. He would need to inform her that Mister Snape was no longer on disciplinary probation. He would restore the lost points, too, although the detentions would stand. Provoked or not, Snape _had_ harmed Pettigrew with a spell of his own invention. Albus was also old enough and wise enough to know that simply because a spell was not dark did not mean that it was harmless. And the one that Snape had created had been complex, and dangerous, and worrisome. More worrisome, in fact, than if it had simply been dark magic. It had so narrowly managed to stay on the right side of the law that Albus knew – he _knew_ – that it had been a deliberate choice on Snape's part. To craft such a spell required extensive knowledge of magical theory, of _dark_ magical theory. It required more knowledge of the theory of dark magic to _avoid_ that sort of spell straying into the dark arts accidentally than it did to create a dark hex with similar effects. With that single spell, Snape had demonstrated a disturbing level of knowledge about both the dark arts and legal loopholes.

But perhaps that was all for the best. If Severus Snape were to be _his_ someday, and not Tom's . . . . well, Albus had waged war against Gellert Grindelwald. He was not so blind as to refuse the services of a wetworks man in a time of war.

* * *

In the sixth-year boys' dormitory, Rosier held up a sheaf of parchment. "And the week's points stand thus," he pronounced. "Avery earned our House five points. Wilkes and Vassilyev both earned ten, and I earned twenty. Mulciber, you broke even. And Snape." Rosier shook his head grimly. "You're down twenty-five. Better than I expected, I admit, but even so . . . . Well, Mulciber has asked to go first as payment for that toenail hex. Then me. Wilkes, Vassilyev, you can flip a knut. Then Avery."

Snape's eyes widened momentarily when Rosier said "twenty-five," but he did not protest. If anything, George thought, he seemed both pleasantly surprised and deeply suspicious. He nodded and knelt on the floor.

"What's this?" George asked, alarmed. "You never said – "

"Training," Mulciber said with a cruel smile.

"I'll time," Rosier said, a note of warning in his voice.

"Sure, sure." Mulciber pointed his wand at Snape. "Crucio!"

* * *

A/N:

Yes, I know the twins' birthday is April 1. They were 5 months shy of the 17th birthday when they went back in time. Living from the beginning of September 1976 through the end of January 1977 would add five months.

Regarding Snape's treatment by the staff, it is (mostly) unintentional bias. Imagine two otherwise equal students. Student A is poor, ugly, ill-tempered, and a likely neo-Nazi. Student B is rich, handsome, charming, and pro-equality. Who do you think would get the benefit of the doubt more often? It's not fair, it's not right, but it _is_ a natural reaction.

And before people point out that Dumbledore always heavily favors Gryffindor over Slytherin, I have two words: Draco Malfoy. In HBP, Dumbledore should have stopped Draco and removed him from school (at a minimum) as soon as he learned of the incident with Katie Bell (if not sooner). But he did not. Katie nearly died. And then Draco nearly got Ron killed with the poisoned mead. That's two very serious near-fatal incidents from the same source. Dumbledore _chose_ not to act – he protected Draco at the expense of others in HBP at least as much as he protected Remus after the "prank" in the Shrieking Shack. Yes, you can argue wartime issues and protecting Snape's cover, but . . . what if Katie or Ron had actually died? Or if Slughorn drank the mead before Harry got the memory (as very nearly happened)? Or if Harry had drunk the poisoned mead?

For this fic, my take is that Dumbledore _wants_ to be fair. Yes, he is biased against Slytherin (the "sort too soon" comment and "choices that define us" speeches in canon have too many pro-Gryffindor / anti-Slytherin overtones). However, biased is not the same thing as _consciously_ biased. He tries to be impartial, but he doesn't always succeed.

Sorry, rant over.

Please review!


	9. Chapter 9: Better Judgment

"Normal speech"

 _Thoughts_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

A/N: Warnings for language.

 **Chapter 9: Better Judgment**

Mulciber pointed his wand at Snape. "Crucio!"

George did not even pause to think. With a beater's strength, he rammed his fist into Mulciber's chin. Mulciber staggered back. Snape stared up at George with unreadable black eyes. Almost as one, Rosier, Avery, and Wilkes drew their wands at pointed them at George. None of them were smiling.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" George demanded. In his mind, a small voice screamed at him to remember the timeline. He ignored it. There were some things that a good man could not ignore, not if he wanted to live with himself afterwards. This was one of them. Timeline be damned.

"With _us_?" Mulciber snarled, rubbing his jaw. "What the hell is wrong with _you_?"

"That was an Unforgiveable Curse!" George shouted. "You can't go around casting those on other people!"

"Enough," Rosier said sharply. "Vassilyev, this is a legitimate training exercise. We all agreed to it. _All_ of us. Even Snape." From the corner of his eye, George saw Snape nod. "You're new to Slytherin, so I've been lenient with you thus far. And I will give you one last chance. Apologize to Mulciber."

"I want satisfaction," Mulciber spat.

Rosier glared at him, and he subsided. "Well, Vassilyev?"

 _These are Death Eaters. Or they will be. These are people who will torture and kill as a matter of course._

George barely hesitated. "No," he said. "I won't let you do this."

Rosier frowned, and then flicked his wand. A jet of blue light shot out. George barely managed to dodge out of the way.

He fell to the floor, his limbs stiff.

"Thank you, Snape," Rosier said calmly.

From his position on the floor, George could see Snape incline his head in Rosier's direction before turning to Mulciber. Black eyes bored into the other boy's face, still reddened from when George had hit him. "I accept my punishment," Snape said, softly yet clearly. "You may continue." _What?_ George thought incredulously.

Mulciber glanced at Rosier, who nodded. Smirking, he raised his wand again. "Crucio!" Snape flinched back slightly from his kneeling position on the floor, but he did not fall. Through his horror, George realized that the cruciatus did not seem to be particularly powerful. Snape's breathing was more ragged than usual, but he had barely so much as twitched after that initial flinch. Professor Moody's demonstration with the spiders had made the curse seem far worse.

Seconds passed. Even as he struggled against Snape's petrification, George could see Mulciber grow increasingly frustrated by Snape's lack of reaction. _Why did he stop me? I was trying to_ help _the ungrateful bastard!_ At last, Rosier raised a hand. "Enough." Mulciber growled, but he lowered his wand.

Rosier tilted his head as he looked at Snape. "Ignis mentis," he said calmly.

And Snape screamed. He thrashed on the ground, writhing in pain. Mulciber laughed. George fought harder against the petrification. He _needed_ to stop this, Snape's apparently willingness be damned. But whatever silent spell Snape had cast clearly did not require continuous concentration from its caster to maintain, as George found that he still could not move.

Rosier's spell lasted far longer than Mulciber's crucio had, or perhaps it merely felt that way given Snape's obvious agony. At last, he released Snape, who slowly righted himself from where he lay on the floor and resumed a kneeling position. Unshed tears glistened in his black eyes.

"Vassilyev has forfeited his place in the order, so Wilkes, you may proceed," Rosier said.

Wilkes licked his lips nervously. He glanced at Rosier and Mulciber, and then raised his wand at Snape. "Ta-" he began, but stopped as he heard a knock on the door. He hastily sheathed his wand. Snape wiped his eyes and rose shakily from where he knelt.

Slughorn entered the dorm. He glanced around the room and frowned as he saw the still-petrified George on the floor.

"Apologies, Professor," Rosier said smoothly. "Professor Lyall is having us work on nonverbal spells for Defense. I know we're not supposed to practice in the dorms, but . . . ." He trailed off, sounding sheepish.

Slughorn waved an admonishing finger at him. "Really, boys, you should know better." But then he spoiled the mild reproach by winking. "Let's just set Mister Vassilyev to rights, and I'll forget I saw anything."

"Yes, sir," Rosier said, smiling. With a wave of his wand, George could move again. He glanced at the professor, weighing whether or not to say anything. For all that the Slytherins' expressions remained friendly in the professor's presence, their postures conveyed barely sheathed hostility. It suddenly dawned on him exactly how much trouble he was in. His dorm mates clearly had no compunctions against turning on their own, against _torturing_ their own. With a terrible flash of insight, George understood why Snape had refused his help earlier. Everyone needs to sleep at some point.

He did not regret his actions one jot.

Even so, he desperately needed to find some way out of the mess he had created for himself.

"Professor," he said, and he could feel the Slytherins tense, "I think I left my Charms notes with my brother. Do I have enough time before curfew to get them back?"

"Hmmm. I'll give you a note. Try not to cut it quite so close next time, eh?" Slughorn replied genially, apparently oblivious to the tension in the room. He scribbled something on a scrap of parchment and handed it to George.

 _Well, I guess that's one good thing about no one here knowing who I really am. None of the professors in our own time would have fallen for that line from me or Fred._

"Thanks, Professor," George said, forcing a smile as he took the note.

Slughorn turned to Snape, and his expression turned vaguely apologetic. "Mister Snape, I'm afraid I need to ask you to come with me to the Headmaster's office."

"Sir?" Snape asked.

"Nothing to worry about. Just a bit of chat," Slughorn said. Snape did not appear reassured. He retreated further behind his hair, but he nodded. Not trusting himself alone with the Slytherins, George followed them out of the dungeons, only separating from them once they reached the first floor.

* * *

"Look, could you please just let my brother know I'm out here?" George asked. "I really need to speak with him."

The boy – a second or third year judging by his height – eyed him warily. His eyes kept darting to the Slytherin crest on his uniform. George tried not to snap at him. He could imagine _his_ reaction if a Slytherin had shown up outside the Fat Lady's portrait in his own time.

"Please?" George practically begged. "He doesn't have to come if he doesn't want to, but please just tell him."

"Fine," the boy said at last. "Now back up so you can't hear the password." In her portrait, the Fat Lady nodded approvingly.

 _Cheeky little blighter_ , George thought, not entirely unkindly. He backed down the hall. The boy whispered something, and the Fat Lady swung open. George caught a tantalizing glimpse of the familiar, welcoming red and gold Gryffindor common room before the boy got himself inside and the portrait swung shut again.

George waited. A seeming eternity passed, although he knew that it was likely only a few minutes. At last, the portrait swung open again, and Fred stepped out. George practically slumped over with relief.

"What's wrong?" Fred asked anxiously, hurrying over.

George's eyes darted around the hall. Other students might come by any second on their way to the common room. "Not here," he said at last. "That side passage, near the tapestry of Boadicea."

Fred raised his eyebrows, but he followed George to the deserted corridor. "What's wrong?" he asked again.

"I think I really messed up," George blurted. His long walk from the Slytherin dungeons to Gryffindor tower had given him more than enough time to think over what he had done. He would not change his actions in the dorm, but – head clearer now – he could see only two options going forward. Either he changed the timeline, stopping – or getting Dumbledore to stop – the crimes going on in the school, or he, George, was going to be in a lot of trouble. Detentions, he was used to. Unforgiveable Curses were another thing entirely. _And that spell Rosier cast that had made Snape scream like that . . . ._ George shuddered, remembering.

"What happened?"

And George explained. Fred paled as he spoke. By the end, he hands were trembling as he looked at his twin with wide, horrified eyes. "You can't go back there," Fred said.

"But –"

"No," Fred interrupted. "You _can't_. I mean it, George. They're mental. All of them. And _dangerous_. From the sound of it, you're lucky they didn't try to crucio you, too. If Slughorn hadn't shown up . . . . Merlin, George. Who knows what might have happened?"

"If I don't go back, people'll ask questions. Dumbledore freaked out when we told him about House points and detentions. _That_ was enough to mess with time. Imagine what him learning about _torture_ would do." George's hands shook.

"People would ask questions," Fred repeated. "You're right. Damn it. And Dumbledore said not to tell him about anything else we learn." He stared at George, looking lost. "You still can't go back there. I could –"

"You're not taking my place," George interrupted firmly. "Don't even think about it. It's not happening."

"You could bunk with me," Fred suggested. "And we could just say it's a twin thing."

"You think they'd really let us get away with that?"

"No," Fred admitted. He stared at George. "Eyebrows."

"What?"

"Dumbledore fixed your eyebrows earlier, remember? So if we remove them, you can pretend that I was the one who decked Mulciber. I stole your uniform and, being the bold and impulsive Gryffindor that I am, I attacked the evil Slytherin casting illegal dark magic. You had nothing to do with it. It was all me."

"And when it happens again next week?"

Fred began to pace. "Well, you can't lose any House points. Model behavior. Pretend you're Percy. Can't have them turn on you. As for the rest . . . ." He paused, considering. "Tell them you managed to get me to keep quiet, but that you need plausible deniability, because of Dumbledore. We have to meet with him every so often as transfer students, and you need to be able to swear you don't know anything." He paused in his pacing and stared at George. "Would that work, you reckon?"

George shrugged helplessly. "Maybe? Worth a try, at least."

Fred nodded and raised his wand. With a wave, he vanished George's eyebrows. "Just don't do anything else to interfere, okay?"

"I can't just let them torture someone!" George cried.

Fred glared at his twin. "If I can keep from lashing out against Black, you can keep out of the way of that lot in Slytherin."

"He's not killing anyone in front of you!" George shouted.

"Then don't look," Fred snapped back. George stared at him. He could not believe what Fred was saying. It was so callous, so cold. And then George saw his eyes, saw the fear in them. Fred was terrified. He was absolutely terrified that George was going to be tortured, maybe even killed. And George imagined how he would feel if he had been the one to go to Gryffindor and Fred had told him about what was going on in Slytherin.

George sighed. "Alright," he agreed, hating himself.

"I wish you'd gone to Gryffindor with me," Fred said.

"Me, too."

"You know, in retrospect, I think that maybe the professors were being fair after all, even if they didn't know it. The Slytherins, they need to choke on detentions. The more the better. They should be expelled. They shouldn't be here, not at Hogwarts. It's supposed to be _safe_."

"They should be in Azkaban," George said softly. "A life term, for an Unforgiveable. That's what Moody said."

"And they will be," Fred said. "If they're not there already. When we get back home, we'll make sure of it. Promise." George nodded. "Okay, let's practice what you'll say . . . ."

Neither twin noticed the brown rat hiding near a small hole at the far end of the corridor.

* * *

George Weasley – once again sans eyebrows – returned to the Slytherin dungeons, fighting not to let his nervousness show. As he neared the common room entrance, he repeated, "I am a Gryffindor. I am a Gryffindor," over and over in his mind in a silent mantra.

"I apologize," George said as he entered the sixth year boys' dormitory, "for the actions of my brother."

"Oh," Rosier said coolly, giving Mulciber a quick, warning glance. Snape – evidently returned from Dumbledore's office – stared at him coldly for a brief moment before retreating behind his hair. _Wonder when he gets rid of that habit._

"Apparently, Potter dared him to break in here," George said with a casual shrug that he did not feel.

Rosier considered him slowly, and George noticed with some relief that his eyes flickered to George's missing eyebrows. "I see," Rosier said slowly. "And how did he get in?"

"He said he followed someone else," George said.

"Will he squeal?" Avery asked.

George sighed. "I convinced him not to," he said. The others in the room relaxed minutely, but then he held up his hand. "But I'm afraid I can't be involved in any further, er, trainings," he continued, trying to inject a note of disappointment into his voice. "Feodor and I have regular appointments with Dumbledore, since we're transfers, and, well, you know how he is."

Mulciber spat on the floor. "What about your brother? He deserves to pay for what he did."

"He's off limits," George snapped, hoping that whatever protection Snape had managed to get for Lily Evans meant that he could keep Fred safe from retribution. "He's an idiot, but he won't do it again. I've dealt with it."

"But do you believe in the cause?" Rosier asked.

"I could have spoken to Dumbledore, or let Feodor go to him. I didn't."

Rosier nodded. "Then we remain copacetic." He shot a quelling look at Mulciber, who looked furious. "Provided you do not disgrace our House, you are excluded from further training sessions. But if you – or your brother – interfere again, then you and he both shall suffer the consequences. Is that clear, Vassilyev?"

"Of course," George said. He tried to smile. It came out more like a grimace.

* * *

An hour later, as George was brushing his teeth, he found himself thrown against the wall of the bathroom. He turned, slightly dazed, to face his attacker, and then gulped as he saw the youthful face of his future potions master glaring down at him. Even at sixteen, Snape was terrifying when angered.

"What are you playing at, Vassilyev?" Snape hissed, his deep voice barely above a whisper.

"What?" George said, struggling to rise. A flick from Snape's wand pushed him back down.

"You dose me in the Great Hall, not once but twice. You grin when McGonagall docks points from me. And yet you then offer to help me with a late night brewing and feign concern over my injuries in Defense. You say _something_ to the Headmaster that actually gets him to take my side over his fucking Gryffindors for the first time in five years. And then you jeopardize your position as Rosier's new toy by attacking Mulciber, ostensibly in my defense. So I ask again, what the fuck are you playing at, Vassilyev?"

"That was Feodor," George protested, even as a part of him choked on "Rosier's new toy." What did _that_ mean?

"Don't pretend that I'm an idiot," Snape spat. "Your wand has a small nick near its tip. Your brother's does not. If you swapped wands, your pretty little speech earlier falls apart. And it doesn't explain the rest of it. Now, what do you want from me?" As he spoke, the tip of his wand glowed faintly.

"Can't I just be a decent person?"

Snape snorted derisively. "Those don't exist," he said. "Try again."

 _Well_ , George thought, _that sums up the git's worldview right there._ "Maybe I just don't want you as an enemy," he said. "You're supposed to be brilliant and mental. Dangerous combination."

"Last try," Snape said. A white-blue spark shot out of his wand, narrowly missing George's face.

 _What will a paranoid teenaged Snape believe? Well, Rosier acts like Snape's a tool to be used, so . . . ._ "I need your help," George said.

"With?"

"Er," George said. He had not thought that far along. "Mind lowering that wand, mate?" Snape merely glared. "Okay, then. Well, you know a lot about the dark arts, yeah? And spell creation? You created that toenail curse, right?"

"Jinx," Snape corrected.

George rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. "Right. Either way, Feodor and I, we, um, have a research project. And we need an expert."

"What sort of project?"

"Compass spells that can circumvent unknown dark magics?" It came out more like a question than a statement. George winced as he said it. _Fred's going to kill me for bringing Snape into this._

 _Maybe it won't be so bad. Lee helped us out with our experiments sometimes. And it's not like Snape is nasty, or violent, or having bizarre mental breakdowns._

 _Damn it._

"I help you with this, and you leave me alone?" Snape asked.

"Yes," George agreed. _Why did I think the git would actually be grateful for me helping him? I really am an idiot._

Snape lowered his wand. George relaxed.

"Next time, just fucking ask," Snape snapped. He flicked his wand at George, who tensed as a silvery-blue glow enveloped him. Then it vanished. He looked inquisitively at Snape, who smirked. "I _am_ a dark arts expert, Vassilyev," he said drily. "A brilliant, mental, _inventive_ expert."

"What did you cast?" George demanded. He did not _feel_ any different.

"Nothing dangerous," Snape said, still smirking. Then his expression hardened. "I honor my debts, Vassilyev. I do this for you, and you leave me alone. You don't involve me in whatever power games you are playing with Rosier or whatever nonsense you are cooking up with the Gryffindors. You don't poke around in my life. You leave me alone."

George nodded. "Deal," he said. He held out a hand to shake. Snape looked down at it, snorted, and then left the bathroom. Shaking his head, George picked himself up and began looking around for his fallen toothbrush. He really, really wished that he had ignored the Sorting Hat's offer and instead gone with Fred to Gryffindor. A mass murderer, a werewolf, and two dead men seemed like far better roommates than the ones he had.

* * *

A/N:

"Ignis mentis" is Latin for "fire of the mind."

Please review!


	10. Chapter 10: A Great and Terrible Thing

"Normal speech"

 _Thoughts_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 10: A Great and Terrible Thing**

Fred could not sleep.

He stared at the dark canopy of his four poster bed, hating himself. He should never have let George go back to the Slytherin dungeons. Those damnable Death Eaters-in-training might be torturing him even now. They might be killing – No, Fred would not allow himself to think that.

It was all he could think about.

Around him, the Marauders' gentle snores mocked him from the otherwise silent room.

The Marauders. Had they created their map yet? If so, Fred could check it, could prove it George was still . . . .

 _Don't think about it. He's fine. I'd know if something happened._

As comforting as that thought was, Fred knew it was a lie. Mum and Dad had forced them through a ridiculous number of tests at Saint Mungo's when they were little, worried that their minds might actually be linked. Which would have been wicked, Fred and George agreed. It really was a shame it hadn't been the case. They were just so similar, so attuned to one another that people _assumed_ they shared a single consciousness. But they didn't. He was no more psychically linked to George than he was to Percy.

Fred continued to stare at the curtains.

At last, he could not take it anymore. "Accio Marauder's Map," he whispered softly. A moment later, a familiar blank sheaf of parchment flew into his hand from across the room near where Remus slept. Tapping it gently with his wand, he whispered, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

And Hogwarts revealed itself. Fred sought out the most important dot, and breathed out a soft sigh of relief. There is was, George's Weasley's dot, safe – or, at least, still active – in the bathroom of the one of the Slytherin dorms.

Wait.

George Weasley's dot.

Not Gustav Vassilyev's.

 _Damn it._

 _Do the Marauders already know?_ Fred wondered. _No, surely they would have said something. But I need to make sure it stays that way. If they find out . . . ._

 _Filch confiscated the Map at some point. Maybe I should make sure it "accidentally" falls into his hands?_

The very idea of intentionally surrendering it to the caretaker tore at Fred. It had been hard enough to give the Map to Harry last year, and they knew that he would use it properly.

 _Then again, George and I found it in Filch's office, in a cabinet labeled "Confiscated and Highly Dangerous." This would just make sure history proceeds as it should, so the next generation – me and George and Harry – can benefit._

Fred watched as Snape's dot moved into the bathroom with George. Their dots were awfully close together. Fred held his breath, wondering what the ungrateful git was up to. At last, Snape's dot moved away. A few minutes later, George left the bathroom and returned to the dorm. The other boys' dots remained still, and Fred hoped that they were sleeping. He watched for another few minutes to reassure himself that George was okay, and then he tapped the parchment again with a murmured, "Mischief managed." It turned blank once more.

 _I should find a way to communicate with George from our dorms, just in case something_ does _happen,_ Fred thought. He mentally added that to his and George's growing list of tasks. _Tracking spell, camera, letters, transfigured gems._

"You done with that, mate?"

Fred jumped at the sound, nearly dropping the Map. He turned and saw a fully awake Sirius Black. Although the other boy's tone had been mind, the gray eyes gleamed expectantly.

"Er," Fred began. His eyes darted to the other three beds, but James, Peter, and Remus were still asleep.

"Don't worry, they can't hear us," Sirius said. Fred forced himself not to gulp nervously. _Right, who would worry about being alone with You-Know-Who's right hand man?_ "You know an awful lot," Sirius continued. "An awful lot. About awful things, too, I'd guess."

"I don't know what you mean," Fred bluffed. _Why aren't the others waking up? What did Black do to them?_

Sirius snorted. "Really? And yet you summoned the Map by name and knew how to use it. Not something we've exactly shared, now is it, _Frederick_?"

And now Fred did gulp.

"I don't know what's going on with you and Dumbledore," Sirius said. "But I know you're a seer, and I know that you don't like me for something I haven't even done yet. Just – just tell me what it is, and I won't do it. No matter what you think you know, I'm not – I'm not evil. Not a Death Eater. Not a killer. I don't want to be. I'm not like that. I _won't_ be." His voice shook as he spoke.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Fred replied, even as his mind raced. "I figured the Map out on my own. Got it from Filch's office earlier." That much at least was true, depending on how one defined "earlier."

"Didn't want to do it this way," Sirius muttered. He raised his wand. "Petrificulus totalus!"

Fred rolled to the side, dodging just in time. Raising his own wand, he cried, "Stupefy!" The jet of red light bounced off Sirius's hastily-raised shield. Sirius flicked his wand again, and this time Fred did not move quickly enough. His limbs froze.

"Sorry," Sirius said softly. "I really didn't want to do it this way." He reached into his book bag and removed a tiny vial. Fred's heart raced in his immobile body. _He's going to poison me!_ "Just two drops should do it. Force you to answer, and to answer truthfully, but not just blurt out anything." He nodded, as if to himself. "That's all." With a murmured spell, the bedsheet wrapped around Fred like ropes, binding him to the bedpost.

The other boys continued to sleep.

With a small stopper, Sirius placed two drops of the clear potion in Fred's slightly open mouth. Then, he released the petrification.

* * *

Feodor spat at him. Sirius clenched his fists but did not otherwise react. _It's fine. It's a fair response. But this is necessary,_ Sirius reminded himself. A moment later, Feodor's demeanor shifted. He looked suddenly calmer, and Sirius relaxed minutely.

"Why do you hate me?" Sirius asked.

"Because you're a murderer and a traitor."

"What?" Sirius asked. _No, no, no._

"You're a murderer and a traitor," Fred repeated, his voice a dull monotone.

"Who'd I kill?" Sirius demanded. _Please, let it all be a mistake._

"Peter Pettigrew. Twelve muggles. Maybe others."

Sirius's knees buckled. He fell to the floor. "Why? Why would I do that?"

"Because you're a Death Eater," Feodor replied. "Peter confronted you. You killed him."

Sirius glanced at Peter's sleeping form. How could he kill Peter? Peter, who might not be the strongest wizard, but who was definitely one of the truest. Peter, who had been the first to forgive him after that horrible mistake with the Shrieking Shack. Peter, who wore his heart on his sleeve. Peter, who worshipped him and James.

He turned back to Feodor. "No. I wouldn't. I'd die before I became a Death Eater. I'd _never_ betray my friends."

 _Just like you'd never betray your family?_ reminded the voice of his conscience.

Feodor said nothing. Sirius realized that he had not actually asked a question. _The difference between two drops and three, I guess._ "What happens to me?" he whispered, cradling his head in his hands.

"You were the best man at the Potters' wedding. They made you their son's godfather. You were their secret keeper," Feodor replied, his voice still that dull monotone. "They didn't realize you were You-Know-Who's right-hand. You told him where they were. He killed them. He tried to kill Harry. He failed. Hagrid came. You fled. Peter found you. He confronted you. You killed him and twelve muggles with a single curse. All that was left was Peter's finger. He earned an Order of Merlin. You were sentenced to Azkaban. You escaped somehow, using unknown dark magic. You tried to kill Harry. You slashed the Fat Lady's portrait. You attacked my brother with a knife. You are on the run from the Ministry."

Sirius looked up, eyes wide with horror. "No, no, that can't be right. You're lying!" Feodor said nothing. "Tell me you're lying! Please! Why aren't you telling me the truth?"

"I am telling you the truth," Fred said. _Right, the veritaserum. Maybe Slughorn got it wrong? Maybe it was a bad batch?_

Sirius knew that he was grasping at straws. He began to sob into his shaking hands. "Please," he begged, "what can I do to change it? How do I change that future?"

"I do not know."

"But that means there's a chance, right? A chance that I _could_ change it?" Sirius asked desperately.

"Yes."

"Okay," Sirius said to himself. "Okay. I'll make sure this doesn't happen. Not that I can see _how_ it happened. You're sure it's me, not Regulus?"

"Yes."

"And Regulus, does _he_ become a Death Eater in your messed up future?"

"I do not know."

"What about Moony?" Sirius had not intended to ask about the others, but he rationalized that the more he knew, the better he could prevent the nightmare from happening.

"He does not become a Death Eater."

"No, that's not what I – never mind. It doesn't matter anyway. I won't let that future happen." Sirius shook his head. "Right. Well, better deal with you. The books say the veritaserum'll wear off on its own in a couple of hours, which is good, since I don't have the antidote on me." He took the Map from where it had fallen on the floor, and then cast the same sleep spell on Feodor that he had used on the others. He restored the bedsheets to their original form, and then murmured, "Obliviate." _Guess it's a good thing after all that Mother insisted that any child of hers learn that spell._

Returning to his bed, Sirius found himself unable to sleep. He stared at Peter's sleeping form for hours, thinking over what he had learned from Feodor. _I won't kill you, Pete. I won't. I'll make sure you're safe. I promise_.

* * *

When Fred awoke, he felt vaguely disoriented. He frowned, trying to figure out why. He shook his head. It was probably nothing.

At breakfast, Fred poured syrup over a stack of pancakes and ate absently. He nodded distractedly at George as he entered the Great Hall. His twin gave a small, encouraging half-smile and nodded back. Fred watched as Snape rose from his seat at the Slytherin table and hissed something in George's ear before exiting the room. Fred saw his twin's shoulders tense momentarily, and Fred felt an slight wave of confused unease. He shook his head and returned to his breakfast.

When they met in the empty classroom after breakfast, George blurted, "I told Snape about the compass charm project."

"What?" Fred exclaimed. "Why'd you go and do that?"

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! But he didn't believe the story we came up with when I went back last night. And of course he's the is His sort of paranoid nutter who refuses to believe you don't have some hidden agenda for helping him out."

The room was spinning. "You helped him out? With Dumbledore, you mean?" he asked weakly.

"Um, Fred? You okay?" George asked.

"Just a bit dizzy." Fred leaned heavily against a desk. He blinked. The room stabilized.

"Fred," George said, sounding unusually concerned. "Do you remember what happened yesterday?"

"Sure," Fred said slowly, wondering if George was playing some kind of trick. "We met that cool Hufflepuff prefect, went to Filch's office on purpose to look up detention records, had Potions, and met with Dumbledore. Why?"

"And that's it?"

"George, what are you getting at?"

"Fred, that's not the last thing that happened. I went to Gryffindor Tower after dinner and –"

Fred fainted.

* * *

A/N:

Nothing in the books makes it sound like memory charms are restricted in and of themselves, so they would probably not be classified as dark arts. Yes, they can be used illegally (as Lockhart did), but it seems that the wizarding world treats obliviates like we treat knives. Yes, you can use a knife to stab someone, but you can also use a knife to chop vegetables. Only the former is illegal.

And memory charms are difficult to cast properly under emotional conditions. Crouch Sr. – a very competent wizard by all accounts – badly overdid the charm on Bertha Jorkins when she discovered his secret. Sirius – even if he mastered it when he originally learned it – was decidedly not at his best when he cast it on Fred.

As for why Sirius was more upset over Peter than James, James might be his best friend, but Peter (and Remus) are still very close friends. There's an emotional difference between hearing that you betray a friend and get him killed (James) and hearing that you personally murder a friend (Peter).

Please review!


	11. Chapter 11: Healing

"Normal speech"

 _Thoughts_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 11: Healing**

"You say he fainted?" Madam Pomfrey asked.

"Yes," George replied anxiously. "He'd gone pale and seemed sort of dizzy, and then he fell over."

"Any other symptoms?" the nurse asked, waving her wand over the still-unconscious Fred.

"I'd mentioned something that happened yesterday, but Fr- Feodor couldn't remember it. At all. And he _would_ have. He really, really would have."

Pomfrey frowned. "What sort of thing was it?" she asked, with an odd delicacy to her voice that George did not understand.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean, was it something unusually traumatic? Some that would be so painful to recall that –"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," George interrupted. "Just a conversation we had. I'd expected him to grill me on it this morning, but he didn't even remember it. Please, what's wrong with him?"

"Hmmmm," Pomfrey said. Her frown deepened. She cast another diagnostic. "I'll need to wake him up to be certain, but I don't think there was any permanent damage."

George did not know whether or not he should feel relieved. He had not even considered _permanent damage_ until she said that. His thoughts were interrupted as Fred stirred.

"Huh?" Fred said, blinking in confusion.

"Look in my direction," Pomfrey ordered.

"What's going on?" Fred asked.

"You fainted," George said.

"I did?"

"You don't remember?" Pomfrey asked.

Fred shook his head. "I remember eating breakfast, and then going to talk to George, and then feeling a little light-headed, but that's it."

"George?" Pomfrey pressed. "You didn't mention another student," she accused George.

"Oh, that's just my nickname for Gustav," Fred said hurriedly. "It's the English version, you know."

Pomfrey raised her eyebrows skeptically. "I see." George could tell that she did not believe Fred, but, fortunately, she did not seem keen to pursue the matter. "Well, what else do you remember from this morning?"

"That's it," Fred said. He paused, and then looked around the hospital wing in confusion. "What's going on?"

"You fainted," George said.

"I did?"

George glanced nervously at the nurse. "Is he going to be alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Fred asked.

"That's the second time you asked what happened, and the second time we said you fainted."

"I did?"

George paled. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded. "Why can't he remember?"

"Poorly cast memory charm," Pomfrey replied absently, running her wand over Fred in another diagnostic.

"Will he recover?" George asked anxiously.

"He should, since we caught it early. Drink this," she ordered Fred, handing him a vial.

He blinked. "What's going on?" Fred asked.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey kicked George out of the hospital wing after an hour, insisting that Fred needed to rest. He still had not improved. George walked aimlessly through the corridors, not paying much attention to where he was going until he nearly walked into Rosier.

"Careful, Vassilyev," Rosier said, smiling a small, cold smile. "Wouldn't want you to get hurt, would we?"

And just like that, George knew that Rosier had cast the memory charm on Fred. A precaution and a threat. George felt his hands ball into fists.

"Woah, easy there," Rosier said, still with that slight smile. "Wouldn't want to imitate your dear brother's reprehensible behavior, now, would you?"

"What did you do to him?" George snarled.

Rosier raised an eyebrow. "Do? I am certain that I have no idea what you mean." George hissed and drew his wand. As he did so, Rosier drew his own in a smooth, easy motion. He laughed coldly. "Just what do you think I have done, Vassilyev?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," George shouted. "You messed with his head!"

Rosier blinked. "Did I? Did I really?" He laughed again and then flicked his wand. George sidestepped the silent stunner and retaliated with a shouted bat bogey hex. Rosier countered it with a sneer. "Not even non-verbal? Pathetic. And here I thought you might prove interesting." With a lazy wave of his wand, he shot another spell at George, who hastily raised a shield. Even so, the force of spell propelled him back, and George found himself flung against the corridor wall. He felt his head connect with the hard stone, and then everything went black.

* * *

George awoke to a splitting headache and the unappealing sight of a scowling Severus Snape. He struggled to stand, but Snape forced him back down. "Don't move," he snapped. "You still have a concussion." He raised his wand, and George tried to push him away. "Don't move, I said. Are you deaf, or simply stupid?" He flicked his wand and muttered something indistinct. George immediately felt his headache start to recede. "You're welcome," Snape huffed.

"Er, thanks," George said awkwardly. "What happened?"

Snape shrugged. "I found you sprawled out in the corridor."

"And you decided to help?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

"Why?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "You're a Slytherin."

"So?"

"And you still concussed or just naturally thick?" Snape said. Speaking slowly, as if to a dim child, he continued, "You are a Slytherin. I am a Slytherin. We are in public. All Slytherins are allies in public."

"Tell Rosier that," George muttered.

"You _are_ thick," Snape decided. "He already knows." George could practically hear the unspoken "idiot" tacked on to the end of his sentence. "Who do you think came up with the rule in the first place?"

"He's the one who hexed me!"

Snape snorted. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not!" George insisted. "He hexed me when I confronted him about he did to Fr- Feodor."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "And what did he supposedly do to your sainted Gryffindor brother?"

"Cast a memory charm on him. Badly," George spat. "What time is it, anyway?" Madam Pomfrey said he was not allowed back until after dinner.

"You're pathetic, Vassilyev," Snape said softly.

"What?"

"Rosier would _never_ hex you in the corridor. Never."

"He did!" George snapped back.

"He would not!" Snape hissed angrily. Flecks of spittle flew from him mouth. Breathing deeply, he added, more calmly, "You know _nothing_ , Vassilyev, nothing to cast such aspersions on him."

"Oh, and I suppose you think _you_ know him? Get your head out of your arse and look around you. He hates you! He bloody well tortured you last night!"

Snape drew in a sharp intake of breath and waved his wand. He murmured, "Muffliato," which George recognized as the privacy spell he had used in Defense class a few days ago. "You know nothing," he said again. "Rosier has done more for me than anyone. _Anyone_ , you understand that?"

"Yeah, I saw last night," George sneered.

"Yes, you did," Snape snapped back. "One night a week, and it's _timed_ , Vassilyev. Just a few minutes, and then I'm _safe_. Our first year was open warfare. You have no idea." He laughed mirthlessly. "And then Rosier stepped in and imposed order. Life is _better_ now. His system _works._ "

"You're wrong," George insisted. "It doesn't work. Your House is supposed to be like your family. You don't hurt your family." Snape cocked his head and stared at George with an unreadable expression. George shifted uncomfortably. He added hurriedly, "Besides, it doesn't change the fact that Rosier hexed me. And cast that memory charm on Feodor."

Snape sneered. "Or you were _both_ obliviated, and someone gave you a false memory of Rosier attacking you. Or you obliviated your brother to hide the holes in your story last night, and are now blaming Rosier to cover up your own crimes."

George felt a strange frisson of unease. _Could Snape actually be right? Maybe Fred and I both got hit with a memory charm, and only Fred's went wrong? But no, I got hexed after Fred._

"You're mental," George said, shaking his head. "Completely paranoid. Who attacked me, then?"

Snape shrugged. "Gryffindors," he said. "Who else?" He waved his wand, and George felt a slight shift in the air as the privacy charm – or whatever it was – lifted. "In any event, you appear fully recovered, so I will be leaving. I expect your presence in the library after breakfast tomorrow to over your project. Your brother, too, assuming he has recovered from his supposed mishap."

Snape, sneering, did not wait for George to reply before turning around and stalking off. About halfway down the hall, he stumbled, only just managing to reach out and catch himself against the wall before he fell. George barely caught a glimpse of Snape's face contorted into a grimace of pain before he took out his wand and tapped it against his right leg. George made out a murmured "ferula" before Snape straightened and continued down the corridor, limping slightly.

* * *

"He's caught in some kind of loop, Albus," Madam Pomfrey said wearily. "Whoever cast that memory charm obviously didn't know what they were doing, or else they didn't care. There's nothing more I can do for him. Maybe Saint Mungo's can help. I know they have a legilimens or two on call, and they might be able to untangle this."

Albus sighed. This was a fine mess. He could not risk a legilimens gaining access to the young time traveler's mind. Voldemort had almost certainly infiltrated at least some of the staff at the hospital by now, and even a well-intentioned healer might see too much and risk changing the timeline. And yet he could hardly do nothing while an innocent student suffered from harm sustained under his care.

"That may not yet be necessary, Poppy. I myself have some not-inconsiderable talent with legilimency. I may be able to assist the boy."

She nodded. "At this point, it can't really hurt. What do you need from me?"

"Just some privacy, and some quiet."

* * *

"What's going on?" Fred asked.

"You don't remember?" George asked, glancing back towards Madam Pomfrey's office. The nurse had just left to gather a few potions. She had said Fred was improving, but . . . .

"Remember what?"

George sighed. "You fainted."

"I did?"

"Maybe I should get –"

"Gotcha," Fred said smugly.

George felt an enormous wave of relief. He laughed. "Merlin, Fr- Feodor, you really had me worried there."

Fred's expression grew solemn. "Yeah, me, too. I _knew_ there was something wrong, but every time I tried to think about it, my memory reset. Dumbledore managed to fix it, but he doesn't know if I'll ever get the missing memories back. But thinking about what's gone doesn't break the brain anymore, at least."

"Always knew you were a bit mental, anyway," George said. "When'll you be allowed to leave, you reckon?"

"Not until tomorrow," Pomfrey said, reentering the room. "I want to keep you under observation here tonight, just in case there's a relapse. If you're fine by morning, chances are that's the end of it."

"You're sure?" George asked, remembering Lockhart.

"Of course," she replied crisply. "The Ministry uses this spell all the time. It's normally perfectly safe, no long-term side effects aside from the missing memory itself. It can be a problem when miscast, like now, but if it's treated early enough, it should be fine." There was a slight shuffling noise from across the room. George turned to see a nervous Remus Lupin standing near the door. He looked pale and stressed as he shifted anxiously from foot to foot. "Oh, heavens, is it that time already?" Pomfrey asked. "My apologies, Mister Lupin. I'll come at once." Glancing at George, she added, "I'll only be a few minutes. Make sure your brother takes it easy and stays in bed while I'm out." Bustling over to Lupin, she said fondly, "Come along, dear. We're a bit later than I'd like, but should make your appointment in plenty of time."

* * *

A/N:

The Russian version of "George" is Yuri, not Gustav. Madam Pomfrey is aware of this, but – per canon – she "never asks too many questions."

Regarding Lockhart not recovering immediately, he essentially lost _all_ of his memories, not just a few hours' worth. Once lost, the memories are more-or-less gone forever (yes, Bertha Jorkins recovered hers through extensive torture, but that also broke her into uselessness). Even in Lockhart's case, his personality remained intact despite him knowing virtually nothing. Once the short-term memory issue was fixed, Fred was basically just reset to dinner the day before, which is not nearly as severe a situation.

Please review!


	12. Chapter 12: In the Red

"Normal speech"

 _Thoughts_

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 12: In the Red**

Albus sat in his office, wishing he could safely obliviate himself. It would be better for everyone if he did not know what he now knew. Alastor Moody – injured practically to unrecognizability – would someday demonstrate the Unforgiveable Curses at Hogwarts. He cast the imperius curse _on students._ What could possibly have possessed his old friend to do something like that? Alastor loathed the dark arts. And the dark arts were addictive. Not just casting them, but simply being around them as they were cast. Even as a patronus made _everyone_ around it feel safer, more protected, the Unforgiveables made everyone nearby a little less safe, a little less likely to resist their allure.

And repeated exposure to the imperius curse was nearly as bad as being subjected to the cruciatus! Nerves could only take so much damage before they frayed irrevocably. The human body could only take so much pain before the mind shut down. The imperius curse might _seem_ far kinder, but being under it could become dangerously addictive. Wizards had been known to become _less_ resistant to its effects, _more_ likely to submit to future commands, if they grew accustomed to the blissful calm of an imperius daze. And minor, seemingly harmless commands like "jump onto the desk" only made the curse seem less dangerous, made its allure all the more insidious.

And now he had to let it all happen.

At least the other brief memories that he had seen had been fairly benign in comparison – an odd sort of sleepover in the Great Hall, some quidditch injuries and minor maladies from failed potions experiments. Seeing the older Mister Snape rant at a class of – Albus guessed – second years even as he tended to some minor explosion had reassured him of his future self's decision to hire the Slytherin as – apparently – the potions professor. Terrible classroom demeanor, of course, but at least he seemed competent enough. And he merely chastised rather than hexed, which was a definite improvement over the young man's current demeanor. Albus felt very nearly reassured about young Mister Snape. Perhaps he was not a lost cause after all.

* * *

It was bizarre, Peter thought. Sirius had been nice to him _all day long_. And not in his usual, slightly condescending "oh, I suppose I can be bothered to help those less fortunate" sort of way, either. Sirius had _volunteered_ to help with his Transfiguration homework. He hadn't even made any offhand comments about how thick Peter was compared to him when he had trouble understanding a bit of theory. It was like Sirius had been replaced with a totally different person. Peter had unobtrusively checked the Marauders' Map just to be sure that it was really Sirius and not some impostor under polyjuice. It _was_ Sirius, but that just made everything even more surreal. Peter kept waiting for the other shoe to drop and whatever prank Sirius was pulling to appear.

And yet nothing happened all day. Even James and Remus seemed to notice something off by mid-afternoon. As Sirius was patiently – _patiently_ – explaining the fourth exception to Gamp's Law, James tilted his head with a half-amused, half-questioning look, and then turned to Remus, who shrugged.

At last, Remus went down to meet Madam Pomfrey and get escorted to the Shrieking Shack. As Peter put away his Transfiguration homework and got himself ready for the night's full moon adventure James whispered, just loudly enough for him to hear, "What's going on, Padfoot?"

"What do you mean?" Sirius asked. He sounded shifty to Peter, but maybe that was just his imagination.

"You know what I mean," James hissed back. _Okay, so not just my imagination._ "You're being so, er, _nice_. To Wormtail, I mean." James sounded awkward. Peter pretended to be absorbed in searching for something in his trunk.

"I'm always nice," Sirius said, and now he definitely sounded shifty. Peter caught James's expression reflected in the window. It looked incredulous. Sirius fidgeted. "I guess, I guess I just want to be a better person. Not like my family. And Pete's our friend. It's not right how we treat him sometimes, you know? I only just realized what's important. And he is. You and Remus, too."

And James smiled. He clapped Sirius on the back. "Good on you, Pads," he said. Louder, he said, "Come on, Pete. Time to get going. Moony should be in the Shack any second now."

* * *

\- September 7, 1976 –

Madam Pomfrey released Fred from the hospital wing on Sunday morning after demanding his promise to return if he experienced any further bouts of dizziness or memory loss. After a quick breakfast in the Great Hall, he met up with George and headed towards the most dreaded room in the castle, the Hogwarts library.

Snape was already waiting for them. At this early hour, only a handful of other students, mostly Ravenclaws, were in the library. Despite this, Snape sat at a table in a far, dimly lit corner, hair covering most of his face. Books and sheaves of parchment were spread out in front of him. He nodded curtly as they entered and made their way over to his table. Before they had even finished sitting down, Snape drew his wand and cast a murmured, "Muffliato." Fred raised his eyebrows.

"Privacy spell," George explained, apparently recognizing it.

"Anti-eavesdropping," Snape corrected testily, as if he expected George to know that somehow. Fred could already see how pleasant working with Snape was going to be, and he wished, not for the first time since George had explained – or, Fred supposed, re-explained – the circumstances of this meeting, that his twin had managed to find some other way to convince the paranoid git.

"Oh, of course," Fred said, rolling his eyes. "How did you miss that, Gustav, old boy?"

"Must have slipped my mind, Feodor, old chum," George replied.

Snape glanced from one to the other. "Do you know _nothing_ of spell theory?" he demanded.

"Nope," Fred said happily.

"Not a blessed thing," George agreed.

That wasn't _quite_ true, Fred knew. He and George knew enough to enchant items with simple spells, like adding a basic one-time transfiguration to their fake wands, and they were good at adapting potions recipes, like their canary creams and ton-tongue toffees. But actual spell _theory_ , how spells were made? That was just boring.

Snape stared at the twins, disgusted. "I knew I would regret this," he said. "In my naïveté, I expected that you had _some_ grounding in the basics. But no, you prove just as woefully ignorant as everyone else. Pathetic."

"Well, if you don't want to help," Fred said, rising. _Maybe we can be shot of the git._

"Sit down," Snape snapped. Fred sighed and then sat. _Can't let George get ambushed again just because I hate Snape._ "Tell me _exactly_ what sort of compass spell you need."

Fred and George exchanged glances. "Like I told you," George said, "we need something that can bypass unknown defenses."

"Yes, thank you, Vassilyev, but I was rather hoping for some level of detail," Snape said, his words coming out slow and mocking. "Distance between the caster and the target? Is the target a person or an object? The approximate strength and type of your 'unknown defenses'? You mentioned the dark arts – to what type of dark arts are you referring? Who is the caster?" As he spoke, he counted each point out on his fingers.

"No clue about distance," George said.

"Probably a fair bit, though," Fred added.

"A 'fair bit,'" Snape repeated. "As in a mile? A hundred miles? A thousand?"

"Er," Fred said.

"No idea," George admitted.

"Of course not." Snape's tone practically dripped with contempt. "And my other questions?"

"Uh, run them by us again?" George asked.

Snape pinched the bridge of his oversized nose, but repeated his questions.

"Person," Fred said.

"Really strong defenses," George added.

"'Really strong,'" Snape repeated.

"Strong enough to block Ministry detection," George clarified.

"That can mean anything or nothing," Snape retorted disdainfully. "The Ministry is hopelessly incompetent."

"Oy!" Fred protested, thinking of Dad.

Snape snorted. "Please, spare me your Gryffindorish blindness. The Ministry is far from a meritocracy. A mediocracy, doubtless."

"I think you mean 'mediocrity,'" George said.

"No," Snape spat. "It is a government by the mediocre, and I dare say I am being far too generous in my terminology. Native talent is ignored in favor of asinine nepotistic connections."

"O-kay," Fred said slowly, drawing out the word. "Thanks for that little ray of sunshine."

Snape ignored him. "And the type of dark arts? And the caster?" he asked George.

"Um . . . there are types?"

"You are joking." Snape stared at the twins. "You're not. Merlin, are you complete imbeciles? Of course there are types!" He began ticking them off on his fingers. "Hexes, curses, blood magic, and necromancy are the four main divisions, but there are dozens – if not hundreds – of sub-types.

"Hexes are the most basic, and are rarely censored by your oh-so-perfect Ministry. They are designed to cause low-to-mid-level discomfort. Most people think that curses are simply hexes with more power, but that is a misconception. Curses are more potent due to the focus of malicious intent inherent in their casting. A hex can be converted into a curse if the caster is talented enough to force his will into it. A curse is correspondingly more difficult to block, and the damage it causes requires more power to undo.

"Blood magic covers a broad spectrum of rituals, ranging from the protective to the destructive. Through the thaumaturgy of blood, boons that affect one can affect many, or harm that targets one instead spreads to multiple. Bloodline curses are, in actuality, rituals that use the blood of one's foe to spread an effect to all those who share a direct familial connection. However, blood magic can equally be used to ward a home against outsiders or to heal one's immediate relatives.

"Necromancy is typically considered the darkest form of the dark arts, as it involves manipulating the soul. Inferi are the most infamous creations of the necromantic arts, but there are also relatively benign necromantic disciplines. Reading the entrails of animals was a standard Divination practice for millennia, and it was taught at Hogwarts until its ban by the Ministry in the late seventeenth century."

Fred and George glanced at one another. "Probably blood magic?" Fred guessed. George shrugged.

Snape nodded. "And the caster?"

"Sorry," George said.

"Can't say," Fred added. They were not going to risk Snape finding out about Sirius Black's future.

"No, of course not," Snape huffed. "Useless. What do you need this spell for, if you cannot even be bothered to gather the most elementary data points necessary to construct it?"

"Look," Fred said, annoyed. "If you don't want to help, don't. Really. We'd rather do this without you, wouldn't we, Gustav?"

"I said I would assist," Snape snapped. "I honor my debts."

"Right," George said. He glanced at Fred, who shrugged. "Basically, I need a way to find Feodor if we ever get separated."

"Exactly," Fred said, catching on. "If Gustav ends up captured by Death Eaters or something."

Judging by Snape's suddenly shuttered expression, that was exactly the wrong thing to say. "Why," he said slowly, looking at Fred, "would your brother be captured by Death Eaters? I was under the distinct impression that you," he indicated George, "had informed Rosier not only of your adherence to general pureblood politics but also your tacit approval of the Dark Lord's agenda."

"I'm not going to become a Death Eater!" George said furiously.

"Course not," Fred added, equally forceful.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. I wonder how he received that impression, then."

"Well, I'm hardly likely to advertise it in front of those pureblood arses, am I? 'Sides, it's not like _you're_ any better. Playing along to keep the peace," George accused.

"Any why," Snape asked, his voice soft and yet venomous, "are you telling me this?"

"Gustav needs someone to watch his back while he sleeps," Fred said. He had almost missed the obliviation when George had reinformed him of what had happened on Friday night, of what Slytherin "training" entailed. Snape laughed mirthlessly.

"Come off it," George said, "it's not like you're going to be a Death Eater either, right? Or even want to?"

Snape looked suddenly furious. "This is some plot, isn't it? Get me to admit something and then run back and tell Rosier?"

"What?" George asked, startled. "No!"

Snape snorted in disbelief. "I will tell you what I told him, Vassilyev. I wish the Dark Lord all the success in the world. If anyone can save us from the muggles, he can." Snape's fists clenched, apparently involuntarily. "But I cannot be a part of it. I have . . . other obligations." He stared off for a moment, and Fred and George turned to follow his gaze. He was looking at Lily Evans, who stood in front of the Charms stacks, engrossed in checking the titles. When Fred glanced back, he noticed to his shock that what little of Snape's face that could be seen was tinged faintly pink.

"You mean it's for a girl?!" Fred exclaimed before he could stop himself, shocked into sudden, hopeless laughter. Snape's anti-eavesdropping spell must still be working, because no one turned to look or hissed at him to be quiet. "You're not joining the Death Eaters –"

"– for a girl?" George finished, wheezing with his own laughter.

Snape flushed even deeper behind his hair. He rose jerkily and began furiously gathering his books into a tattered book bag. Before Fred and George could stop him – or even fully stop laughing – he had stormed out of the library.

"Well," Fred said, once he had gotten his mirth under control, "that went well."

"Don't think he'll be watching my back, do you?"

"Probably not," Fred admitted. "Well, at least we're shot of the git?" he asked hopefully.

"Or he'll hex me again when I go to brush my teeth tonight," George said.

"Paranoid nutter."

George sighed. "I almost miss the adult," he said.

Fred choked. "What?"

"Well, he'd just take off points or give really unpleasant detentions, right? Not ambush a bloke in the loo and hex him for no good reason."

"Merlin, Snape _mellowed_ with age." Fred laughed.

"And he's got a crush on Harry's mum," George added.

"That is just so wrong."

"Ah, Fred, for the love of a good woman –"

"– a greasy git will remain –"

"– reluctantly neutral."

Fred shook his head. "It'd almost be heartwarming if it weren't, you know, Snape. You think he really meant it about wanting You-Know-Who to win?"

George shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe he really thinks I'm spying on him for Rosier. Who knows? Slytherins are all mental."

* * *

"He's hopelessly naïve, or is very good at pretending to be. As his ignorance of the dark arts is so extreme as to be unconvincing coming from a Hufflepuff first year, I find it more likely that he is simply an appalling liar. Or perhaps that he wishes to be overlooked as such, and is instead playing a deeper game.

"His brother is his weak point, as expected. They are genuinely close, not merely feigning fraternal affection. They claim to want my help researching tracking spells that can bypass the Dark Lord's wards, but I suspect it was simply a weak attempt to determine how much I know."

"Good work. It seems that the Gryffindor brother truly was obliviated earlier. Sloppy job, too. It may have been with the intent to frame me, or perhaps that was merely an unhappy coincidence. In either case, keep me informed."

Evan Rosier smiled as Snape nodded curtly and left the room. If Vassilyev sought to steal his tool, Rosier would ensure that Snape's ties to him grew ever more irrevocable. Filthy half-breed he might be, but he _was_ useful. And he always, always paid his debts.

* * *

A/N:

For those who didn't catch it, everything that Albus saw in Fred's mind is tangentially related to the obliviated memories.

The next chapter won't be until the second half of October. Sorry, but real life is taking up a lot of my time right now.

And for those who are interested, here are the three fanfics for which I most eagerly check my alerts for new updates (in no particular order):

Harry Potter and the Prince of Slytherin by The Sinister Man: Wrong Boy-Who-Lived. Unlike most fics of this type, there is only very minimal bashing. Amazing plot twists, and the characterization is great.

The Never-Ending Road by laventadorn: The only fem!Harry I've ever really enjoyed. Laventadorn writes – to my mind – the most in character Snape I've seen, and things in the fic that I had never even considered before have retroactively become headcanon for me. Laventadorn's Come Once Again and Love Me is also great.

Valley of the Shadow by Nightfall Rising: Britain in 1980 from a Slytherin point of view. I don't think a single character in this fic exactly matches my personal headcanon, but that's part of what makes it brilliant. It has great differing POVs.

Please review!


	13. Chapter 13: Practice and Preach

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 13:** **Practice and Preach**

\- September 7, 1976 -

"Hey, Lupin. Professor McGonagall's looking for you," said a tall blond teenager with a Head Boy badge pinned to the front of his robes.

Remus blinked in confusion from where he lay, exhausted, on his bed in the Hospital Wing. As usual after the full moon, his entire body ached despite Madam Pomfrey's best efforts. As a result, he normally tried to sleep through the discomfort as much as possible. Blearily, he tried to think back over the last day or so to identify anything that might cause his Head of House to seek him out, but nothing came immediately to mind. Unless . . . had something happened when he transformed? _No, surely even Sirius would not be so foolish as to try something, not after what happened last year with Snape. Would he?_ "Did she say what's wrong, Frank?" he asked, sitting up and suddenly feeling more alert.

"Emergency prefects' meeting," Frank replied, shrugging. "Headmaster's office. And before you ask why, I have no idea. Just know that Ophelia and I need to round up the lot of you by three this afternoon. She's got the Ravenclaws and the Slytherins, I've got us Gryffs and the Hufflepuffs."

Remus collapsed back into the bed in relief, the adrenaline leaving his system almost as quickly as it had come. If all of the prefects were summoned, it probably had nothing to do with him, at least not directly. "Thanks, Frank. I'll be there," he said.

"If you're not feeling up to it –" Frank began, looking concerned.

"No, it's fine," Remus protested. "Really. I'll be fine."

Frank gave him a half-disbelieving, half-pitying look. "Well, if you're sure," he said. "See you in a bit, then. You're my last Gryffindor, but I've still got the Hufflepuffs to find."

"Say hello to Alice for me," Remus said, and was mildly amused to see Frank flush a deep crimson before he left the Hospital Wing.

* * *

Remus felt his heart clench as Dumbledore spoke. Those twinkling blue eyes seemed to bore directly into his soul. "As representatives of the school, it is our duty and our privilege to maintain its highest virtues. Each of us has felt the temptation to favor our politics or our House or our friends over others – yes, even me," the headmaster added, eyes sparkling. It was barely audible, but Remus could have sworn that he heard Regulus Black and Jezebel Flourish muffle derisive snorts at that.

"It is something I deeply regret," Dumbledore continued. "I have forced myself to recognize and confront my own biases, and I would ask each and every one of you to search within yourselves. While it might be tempting to take the side of your friends or your House when you come across an altercation in the halls or a debate in your common rooms, please keep in mind our mutual obligation to remain fair and impartial."

Was it just his imagination, or did Dumbledore's blue eyes fix longer on him than on the others? _He must think I'm a terrible prefect. I never stop James or Sirius. I didn't stop Peter when he attacked Snape. I even helped lie about what happened. Dumbledore must know that._ Remus squirmed where he stood. He _hated_ feeling like he had let Dumbledore down. Dumbledore, who had done so very much for him, who had trusted him, who had let him attend Hogwarts when no other headmaster in history would have.

 _But I did let him down_ , he realized. _And if I'm going to be a professor someday, I can't let myself continue like this. It wouldn't be fair to the students. I should be better. I_ will _be better._

Dumbledore was still speaking. "And it does not matter where we come from – muggle or wizard, rich or poor, Hufflepuff or Slytherin – but where we are going. That is why I have asked you and your Heads of House here, so that we are all in agreement about what course we should follow as the standard-bearers for this school."

"Quite so, quite so," Slughorn boomed genially, and the other three Heads nodded from where they stood beside him. Sprout and Flitwick smiled as they did so, while McGonagall simply looked grim.

 _Probably because she's disappointed in me, too_ , Remus thought dully.

* * *

\- September 12, 1976 -

The week had passed mostly uneventfully. Fred and George had completely forgotten about their Divination homework, and the ancient Professor Delphius had taken ten points from each of them and assigned detention with Filch. The detention itself wasn't so bad – just scrubbing trophies, which they'd both done countless times by now – but the loss of points so early in the week had sent Fred into a panic on George's behalf. He had marched his twin down to the library and insisted that they not only do their homework but that they do it to Percy's standards.

It was miserable. George reckoned he and Fred had spent more time in the library in the past week than they had in the last five years combined. He had been tempted – so very tempted – to use a bit of the spending money Dumbledore had given him to pay Snape to do some of his homework for him. But he refrained, remembering his and Fred's plan to buy a camera in Hogsmeade.

Even so, it _was_ tempting. Snape's prices were almost pathetically cheap – ten knuts for an _A_ , a sickle for an _E._ He refused to do someone else's homework to _O_ standards. "If you want to threaten my class ranking, do your own damn homework," George had overheard him snap at Wilkes.

George's spirits improved when Fred reminded him that they had just been handed perfect blackmail material. Snape could not possibly punish them for turning in the exact same assignments when they got back to the present, not unless he was willing to have them expose the hypocrisy of his teenaged self's homework business.

Actually, Snape would probably just dock a thousand points from Gryffindor and assign them a decade's worth of detention for their temerity. But generations of students would thank them, so it would be worth it anyway.

Besides, if he and Fred had any leftover spending money after buying the camera, they could use it to pay Snape to do their homework. Fred had laughed, delighted, when George suggested that.

To make things even better, George had earned back the ten points by the end of Defense on Wednesday. Apparently, being Snape's partner had some uses. Professor Lyall seemed quite taken with his skill, which – George had to admit – was fairly impressive. Even as a sixth year, Snape was more competent than half of the Defense professors he and Fred had had. _Not that that's saying much._

And then it was Friday.

As they had the last time, Fred and George sat with Alice, the Hufflepuff prefect, and Lily for Potions, the final class of the week. As they waited for class to start, Alice asked softly, "So, are you two the reason we prefects got a lecture on fairness?"

George blinked in surprise. "You did?"

"Oh, yes," Alice said darkly. "Special Sunday prefects' meeting with Dumbledore and the four Heads of House."

"Professor Dumbledore," Lily corrected absently.

Alice waived a dismissive hand. "Well, were you?"

Fred and George glanced at once another. "Well, we can't be sure – " Fred began.

" – but it stands to reason," George finished.

"Thanks for that, then," Lily muttered, sounding vaguely disgruntled.

"Wait, you mean you _didn't_ enjoy the lecture?" Alice asked in mock surprise.

"It was over an hour long," Lily replied. "And it's not like it's really going to do anything, is it? I mean, tell me with a straight face that Hutchins and Black will take it to heart and stop picking on muggleborns."

"Slytherin prefects," Alice explained when Fred looked blank.

"Probably not to do with us," George said.

"Yeah," Fred agreed. "I mean, we're all for muggleborn equality, don't get me wrong, but we didn't talk to Dumbledore about that."

"Oh, but at least half of the lecture was about not judging someone just by their House," Alice added.

"Okay, that might have been us," George admitted.

"Thanks," Alice said sarcastically. "That's an hour of my life I'll never get back."

"That bad?" Fred asked.

"'For thought we may wear different emblems over our hearts, it is the duty of each and every one of us to carry the true spirit of Hogwarts within our heart," Lily said drily.

"You actually memorized what Dumbledore said?" Alice asked.

Lily shrugged. "Habit. Sev- A friend and I used to play the Pointless Platitude Game. Whoever found the most ridiculously treacly drivel won."

Fred and George winced. "That really was an actual quote?"

Alice and Lily nodded.

"Sorry," said Fred.

"We'll make it up to you?" George offered hopefully.

Alice snorted. "Word of advice? Don't let on that it was you. Our fellow prefects might not be so forgiving as Lily and I are."

Lily shook her head. "Speak for yourself, Alice. _I_ haven't forgiven anyone for that yet."

"Lily –" Alice began.

"Fine, fine," Lily grumbled. "Look, I agree we need to cut down on the bigotry at this school. More than most, even. The prejudices here, they change people, and not in a good way." Her eyes moved from Alice and the twins towards Snape, once again sitting alone at his table, and George suddenly realized who the "Sev" who played the Pointless Platitude Game with Lily must have been. _They really were friends once, weren't they? Good friends, too._ "But lecturing people about it doesn't help. They just close their ears to what they don't want to hear. I just don't see the point in trying, not anymore." She stared at the Slytherin for another long moment before shaking her head and turned back to face the twins. "What I mean is, thanks for what you tried to do, but I wouldn't hold my breath that anything comes of it."

The door opened, and Slughorn entered the classroom, ending their discussion by putting the class to work brewing a Titillation Tincture. Fred and George could not recall brewing this in Snape's class. Despite losing their advantage from last week's lesson, they thought that their efforts this week were nearly as good. The tincture was not quite the translucent pink that the textbook recommended, but it looked just as good as Alice or Lily's work. Slughorn seemed fairly pleased, at least.

Unsurprisingly, Snape's potion was, once again, perfect.

Surprisingly, though, Professor Slughorn seemed more inclined to acknowledge it this week. Snape blinked in momentary startlement before narrowing his eyes warily at the man's overly effusive praise. He flinched noticeably as Slughorn clapped him merrily on the back before moving on to the next table. George remembered the welts and bruises he had seen on Snape's back last week, and he winced in momentary sympathy. Even so, he considered the result a success. Dumbledore must have spoken with the professors, not just the prefects, after he and Fred had met with him last week. _Lily was wrong. Something did come of it._

* * *

And then it was evening.

As he had done last week, Rosier held up a sheaf of parchment. "And the week's points stand thus," he pronounced. "Wilkes and Snape earned the House five points. I earned ten. Avery and Vassilyev both broke even. Mulciber lost five." Rosier shook his head, setting the parchment down. "Sorry, old boy. Vassilyev, I suppose you better leave. 'Plausible deniability' and all," he added with a faint sneer. Avery chuckled.

George gulped. For an insane second, he considered staying, trying to fight what he knew was about to happen. But the memory of Fred's confused, obliviated face stopped him. Rosier was not above punished him through his twin. Hating himself, he nodded and exited into the common room. As he closed the door behind him, he thought that he could hear the faint sounds of Rosier casting a spell.

* * *

In his animagus form, Peter Pettigrew easily passed undetected as he followed a group of Slytherin students into their common room. Curious, he looked around, momentarily distracted from his self-appointed mission. The comforting reds and golds of Gryffindor Tower were replaced by eerie greenish light and a disturbing view of the underwater lake. _No wonder they all go evil, if they're surrounded by this for seven years._

Remembering why he had come, he found Mulciber playing exploding snap with Avery in one corner of the common room. Mulciber laughed nastily as one of the cards exploded in Avery's face, singeing off his eyebrows. Avery cursed. A few seats away, Jezebel Flourish looked up from her reading. She smirked at Avery, and then returned to her book.

"Gentlemen," Rosier said, stepping into the common room. Mulciber and Avery shrugged and put away the deck of cards, heading towards the prefect. Peter hurried to follow.

Rosier led them into what was clearly a dormitory. Snape, Wilkes, and Vassilyev were already inside. Once all six boys – and Peter – were inside, Rosier unrolled a sheaf of parchment and read off of it. _That's a lot of pomp for reading off House points,_ Peter thought.

"Sorry, old boy. Vassilyev, I suppose you better leave. 'Plausible deniability' and all," Rosier said, setting aside the parchment. Avery chuckled. Vassilyev left, and Peter felt a sudden rush of excitement. He remembered overhearing the two seers talk about "plausible deniability" last week. Whatever was going on was about to happen. He felt certain of it. And he would then be able to report back – to the other Marauders, maybe even to the professors or the Ministry if it was serious enough. The seers _had_ also mentioned Unforgiveables, after all. That wouldn't just get the junior Death Eaters expelled, it would get them sent to Azkaban. Forever. It might even earn him an Order of Merlin. _War hero._ Peter's whiskers twitched in anticipation.

Rosier began casting some spells. Peter recognized the first few as basic privacy wards. Then he cast one that Peter was not familiar with, but it caused him to feel a strange tingling all over. He twitched.

"What's this?" Rosier asked, looking right at him. "It seems we have ourselves a rat." He drew his wand and pointed it directly at Peter.

Peter ran.

Rats can fit themselves through very narrow spaces. Peter had never been so glad of that as he was now. A jet of red light barely missed him as he managed to squeeze himself into a small hole in the dungeon wall. He barely heard Rosier say, "– more expecting McGonagall." There was an indistinct mutter, and then Rosier continued, "Don't bother. All in all, this could be very useful. Very useful indeed."

Peter did not wait to hear more. He did not trust the safety of the walls to protect him. He fled.

* * *

A/N:

No, Dumbledore was not intending to target Remus in particular, even though he strongly suspects that Remus has misreported some events. It's just Remus's guilty conscience that makes him think that he is being singled out.

Yes, Frank the Head Boy is Frank Longbottom. For those who had not already guessed, Alice Talbott is the future Alice Longbottom.

We are almost 40,000 words in, and it's only the end of the second week of school. I admit that I did not expect that so much word count would be spent on these first weeks, but the pace should increase in future chapters.

Please review!


	14. Chapter 14: Flight and Fight

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 14: Flight and Fight**

\- September 27, 1976 –

"Wake up, Vassilyev," Snape said.

George groaned. "It's Saturday," he complained.

"Your mastery of the calendar astounds me," Snape drawled. "Nevertheless, Black asked me to ensure that you were awake."

"Why?"

"Quidditch tryouts," Snape said. He did not sound enthused.

That managed to jolt George from his sleepy stupor. But then he remembered which House he was in, and he let him head fall back to his pillow. "So? I wasn't planning on joining the team." Nearly a full month into the school year, George was horribly, profoundly sick of Slytherin. Staying on the straight and narrow to avoid losing House points – and the "training" that would result – had led to a miserable few weeks, for all that Fred kept trying to buoy his spirits.

Admittedly, the enchanted torches outside the Charms classroom that made everyone passing by start singing opera _had_ been brilliant. Even Flitwick had thought so. His aria in praise of student creativity had been so passionate that the class had sung out a collective request for an encore. It had apparently encouraged more students than usual to enroll in the music club, and Flitwick had awarded them ten points each for "excellence in enchanting and a knack for advertisement / bravo for your incanting, please take under advisement."

Slughorn had been impressed, too, when he heard about it. He had invited both Fred and George to some dinner party that he was throwing on Halloween. It had earned the twins a few jealous glances from other students, so they assumed that Slughorn's parties were probably a blast and accepted.

"It's mandatory," Snape said, his tone flat. "Surely you saw the notice in the common room? Only first, fifth, and seventh years are exempt." George vaguely recalled seeing something about tryouts, but he had not read through it as he had no desire to join the Slytherin team. Apparently recognizing this, Snape added testily, "First years aren't allowed brooms, fifth years have OWLs, and seventh years have NEWTs." _Huh_ , George though, _Snape must have changed that rule when he took over from Slughorn. Fifth and seventh years can definitely compete now. Or maybe it's just that tryouts aren't mandatory for those years?_

 _Then again, I have a hard time seeing Slughorn enforce anything like mandatory quidditch tryouts. Unless it's some sort of longstanding Slytherin tradition?_

"I don't have a broom," he protested, even as a part of him thought, _But it'd be nice to play quidditch again. Wonder if Fred's trying out. He didn't mention anything._

Snape shrugged. "Then congratulations on getting to risk death and dismemberment on a school broom." George shuddered, and Snape smirked. "Look, Vassilyev, Black told me to tell you, and I did." He paused, and then added, almost as an afterthought, "Quidditch scores factor into House points."

 _Oh_. Well, that _did_ make a difference. "Fine," George grumbled. "I'm coming." As Snape nodded and turned, George asked, "What's the competition for beater look like?" Being encouraged to hit bludgers towards Slytherin team members in practice would certainly go a long way towards working off his less-than-pleasant feelings towards his Housemates.

Without bothering to turn back, Snape said, "Over half the House is competing for six slots on the team. Take a guess."

"Quidditch has seven players," George corrected, vaguely smug that he knew something that Snape apparently did not.

"I doubt the captain's position is in jeopardy," Snape sneered back. "But by all means do feel free to try out for seeker if you disagree." And with that, he left the dormitory.

George quickly dressed and went down to the quidditch pitch. It seemed that Snape was right – at least half of Slytherin House had shown up, including some students that he recognized as fifth and seventh years. Regulus Black, the fifth year prefect, was there, holding one of the nicer-looking brooms. A brief glance confirmed that about half of the people there had their own brooms. The rest, including Snape, clustered around a pile of decrepit-looking school brooms. They seemed, if anything, even worse than the ones George remembered from his own time, and at least a quarter of those had been genuine safety hazards even for experienced fliers. His hopes for a beater position dimmed.

 _I wonder who's captain?_

The question was swiftly answered when Black cast a sonorus on himself and proclaimed, "Alright. So let's start with some basic tests to weed out the dross. Second years first. Let's see one lap around the pitch."

Black cut about two-thirds of the second years. A few looked disappointed, but most just shrugged as if unsurprised. As the rejects made their way to the stands to watch their fellows or back to the castle for breakfast, Black called the third years up to fly a lap. He kept more of them, and even more of the fourth years. Only two fifth years tried out, and Black held both of them for the next round.

And then it was the sixth years' turn. George looked dubiously at his school broom. It was not the worst of the lot, but it was hardly the best, either. Even so, he mounted it without much difficulty and managed a decent, if not fantastic, lap around the pitch.

"Wilkes, you're out," Black said at once. Wilkes had nearly crashed into the ground twice, but George suspected that was as much the fault of the broom as the rider. "Flourish, Peters, you can go, too. Peters, give Vassilyev your broom for the next round." Peters, a dull-faced girl, nodded and wordlessly handed it to George. It was another school broom, but it seemed like a better one than he had been using. "The rest can stay."

Snape, George noticed, did not look particularly pleased to have made the first cut.

Three seventh years tried out, and all of them were allowed to continue to the next round. George privately thought that one of them, a burly redheaded boy, should have been cut due to poor control of his broom – and not a school broom, either – but imagined that internal House politics might be in play. Merlin knew that Slytherin certainly had more of _that_ going on than Gryffindor ever did.

"Okay," Black said. "Sort yourselves into positions. Keepers form up here. Beaters here. Chasers over there." The remaining students moved to the indicated locations. Rosier, Snape, and Avery all went to the chasers section. Mulciber stood a little in front of George along with the others trying out for beater.

"Let's start with the chasers. Three at a time, show me basic passes," Rosier ordered.

About thirty minutes later, Black had cut about half of the chaser hopefuls. To George's surprise, Snape was still a contender. Then again, he was handling the school broom with more skill than George had expected, although without any particular flair. Given a decent broom and some practice, he might even have had a shot at a place on the team. Watching the others, though, George doubted that Snape would remain in the running for much longer.

"Alright, I'm going to throw some bludgers into the mix now. Elroy and Mulciber, you first. Try to knock the chasers off their stride."

After a few more minutes, Black cut Elroy and two of the chasers, and then called George and a cheerful, muscular-looking seventh year girl up. George hefted the familiar weight of the beater's bat as he took off, and he soon lobbed a bludger towards Rosier, whose quick dodge out of the way momentarily disrupted the chaser formation. George grinned. _Maybe next time I'll hit the slimy bastard._

The girl he had been paired with was talented. She hit the second bludger between Rosier's new position and one of the third years trying out, and both swerved out of its way. George decided to up his game. He was no longer in a good position to hit Rosier, which was a pity. Instead, he threw his strength into the next hit, and with a resounding _crack_ , the bludger hurtled towards Snape, who barely managed to dip out of its path in time. The bludger sailed past mere inches from him, but the necessary dodge caused Snape to drop the quaffle. Snape seemed paler, too, as if the near miss had scared him.

George blinked. There was something wrong with Snape's right arm. He was cradling it to his chest, steering his broom only with his left hand.

Black blew on a whistle, and they all returned to the ground. "Snape, you're out. Go see Pomfrey about that arm. Nice hit, Vassilyev." _But I didn't_ , George thought. _The bludger missed._ And yet Snape's arm was unmistakably broken.

Snape nodded and left. He looked, George thought, almost relieved to have been cut from the team. But then, he _was_ hurt, and he was being dismissed to get healed. Besides, Snape had never seemed particularly interested in quidditch, at least not beyond his token engagement as a Head of House. Not the way McGonagall had been so deeply invested in the Gryffindor team's prospects, or so smug whenever they won a match. Indeed, the only time George had ever seen him on a broom before today was when Snape had refereed the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match in his and Fred's third year.

 _You'd think he'd want to be on the team for the House points, though, if nothing else._

Tryouts lasted another two hours. George had made it until almost the final cut, but ultimately better brooms won out. Black had even apologized and told him that he would reconsider if George could get himself a better broom before the first match. Given that he had not particularly wanted to join the Slytherin team in the first place, he felt surprisingly disappointed. Even so, he could not fault the captain for his decision. Those school brooms were _terrible._

He went back into the castle and headed down to the Slytherin dungeons for a much-needed shower. The common room was almost entirely deserted when he arrived, presumably because most of the House was either still at the pitch or had opted to grab some lunch before returning to the dorms. Snape sat in one of the armchairs, reading a thick book whose title forced George to stifle a laugh.

" _Mental Arts for Mental Sorts_?" he asked. "Really?"

Snape scowled. "What do you want, Vassilyev?"

"Pomfrey healed you up?" George asked. Snape gave a small shrug, not raising his eyes from his book. Annoyed at being ignored, George accused, "That bludger didn't hit you."

At that, Snape did look up. He glared at George. "So my arm broke of its own accord?"

 _Well, when you put it like that . . . ._ "That's not what I said. But I know what I saw. And you dodged that hit. Besides, it's not the first time you've gotten mysterious injured for no discernable reason."

Snape's entire body stilled. "What are you implying?" he hissed, voice barely above a whisper.

George immediately recognized the tone as presaging one of Snape's most vicious moods. He raised his hands in what he hoped would be taken as a placating gesture. _Not that it had ever worked with Snape before._ "Nothing," he said quickly. "I'm just concerned. You know," he added in a burst of inspiration, "since we're both Slytherins and therefore allies."

"In public," Snape snapped the correction, but he seemed less inclined to deduct massive amounts of House points. Or whatever the teenaged Snape's version of that would be. From what George had seen, that seemed mostly to consist of hexing people. Generally better connected people with a lot more allies than he had. Teenaged Snape was crazy. George could almost like him, if he weren't also a paranoid, ungrateful, possible Death Eater sympathizer. Or if he weren't destined to grow up and become the nastiest professor in the school.

"Look, I'm just concerned," George said. "Don't want my Defense partner to suddenly keel over and die in class and everyone blame me, do I?"

"Allow me to lay your concerns to rest. A broken arm or black eye will hardly prove fatal." Snape pointedly returned to his book.

"Is it that thing you cast on Peter?" George asked, suddenly remembering the incident from a few weeks ago.

"Pettigrew?" Snape asked, sneering from behind his book. "Why would I cast that on myself, Vassilyev? At least _try_ and think, won't you?"

"A curse, then?" Snape ignored him. "I mean, it must be, right? Can't Dumbledore or Saint Mungo's or someone help? Does Pomfrey know, at least?" George could not pinpoint exactly why he cared so much. _What does it matter? It's just Snape, and it's not like he won't be perfectly fine and free to terrorize first years to his non-existent heart's content in the future._ But there was something about Snape's nonchalance about the situation that bothered him on some deeper, fundamental level. George knew he was missing some key piece that would make everything clear, and its absence felt like a sore tooth, painful to prod and yet impossible to ignore.

The mention of the school nurse finally provoked a reaction. Snape slammed his book shut and glared at him. George took an involuntary step back. "No," he snarled, "and if you tell her, I will disembowel you and see you hanged by the neck with your own entrails."

That was an oddly specific threat. George would have doubted it from the adult, thinking it just another way to frighten students. From this younger version, though . . . George could believe it. He remembered the single "training" session he had witnessed. He _did_ believe it.

"It is not a curse," Snape continued, voice a low growl. "It is not a hex. It is – most of all – not any of your bloody business." Something about that phrasing tugged at George's memory. He frowned as he tried to recall what it could be, and was therefore unprepared for when Snape drew his wand and cast.

"Mmgth!" George protested angrily. His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. Snape smirked. "Ggrgrrhth," he tried again. He made a grab for Snape's book, but the other boy moved it out of reach. George snatched a quill from a nearby table and wrote furiously on a spare scrap of parchment, "FIX THIS."

"No."

"Thgthth ughthth."

"Go away or I'll make it permanent."

George knew when to give up. The shower could wait. He turned to leave the common room and find Madam Pomfrey. A pity the nurse never deducted House points. Bastard deserved to start the week at a deficit. George had nearly reached the door when he heard Snape whisper to himself, so quietly that he doubted he was meant to hear, "I just need to last until Easter. Just until Easter. And then I will make everything right."

* * *

A/N: Please review!


	15. Chapter 15: To Catch a Rat

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 15: To Catch a Rat**

\- September 27, 1976 -

Peter was stressed.

He would not have traded his three best friends for the world, but it wasn't always easy sharing a dorm with them. Remus was alright most of the time. Calm, patient, understanding, easygoing. Exactly the sort of person a bloke would want as a roommate. Except, of course, that he was a werewolf. Peter knew it was wrong to hold that against Remus, and for the most part, he thought he was pretty successful at ignoring it. But full moon nights always scared him, even if he pretended to enjoy them as much as James and Sirius did. It made Remus cranky in human form, and absolutely terrifying as Moony. The others were big enough that they could handle a werewolf, at least somewhat. Peter's animagus form was small, though, and he always worried about being eaten by Moony or crushed beneath Prongs' hooves.

Worse, ever since he had managed the transformation, he had begun twitching whenever he saw a cat, which was just _not fair_. The castle was _full_ of cats. At least half the students brought a cat to school with them, and Filch's demon beast Mr. Wensleydale had taken to following him more than was natural, even considering that he was a Marauder. He thought that McGonagall had started treating him differently, too, but that might just be his imagination. James, at least, seemed to think she was being more unreasonably strict this year than she had before.

And, of course, bunking with James and Sirius could be stressful at the best of times. They meant well, they really did, but neither had much patience for him. It manifested as casual contempt, mainly, but it still hurt. Peter knew he wasn't stupid, knew he wasn't weak – _I managed the animagus transformation, didn't I? Most wizards who try fail, and most failed attempts turn out really, really badly_ – but they made him _feel_ stupid and weak. Yes, they were more talented than he was. He could admit that. But his marks weren't bad. His mum had been very pleased with his OWLs. He had only failed History, but almost everyone did. Sure, he had gotten mostly _A_ s, but he had two _E_ s and a single, glorious _O_ in Transfiguration that had made his mum glow – literally _glow_ – with pride.

But James and Sirius were alright, really. Normally. Most of the time. And James was the same as ever, this year, so that was fine. Sirius, though . . . . Peter was sure that Sirius was going to drive him to an early grave.

Sirius was being _nice_. Still. It had been weeks, and yet Sirius kept on being patient, kept on helping him, kept on encouraging him whenever a spell didn't work out right in class. James had accepted the explanation that the situation with Sirius's family had changed him somehow, but Peter doubted that was all it was. He remembered when his dad had run off on him and his mum, and it had been awful, sure – really, really awful, actually – but they had not suddenly woken up and become completely different people. Not the way Sirius had. And Sirius hadn't been like this at the very start of term, either. Something had happened two weeks ago that had changed him.

Although, when Peter stopped to think about it, Sirius was acting exactly the same as ever with James and Remus. It was only with him that things were suddenly and inexplicably different.

It was freaking him out.

But that was not why he was stressed. It wasn't even the new boy in their dorm, Feodor Vassilyev, although he was not exactly Peter's idea of an ideal roommate, either. He was too much like James and Sirius, always joking, always coming up with little pranks. Peter could deal with that, though. But whenever he looked at the boy, he remembered that Feodor was a seer. That was fine when he thought about being a war hero and making his mum proud. It was worse when he remembered what the seer had said about Sirius. Or, rather, what he had _not_ said. There was something _wrong_ with Sirius, and the seer knew it. And Peter believed it, whatever it was. Sirius was just acting too oddly.

And the worst of it was that no one believed him that anything was wrong. He had tried talking to Remus about it – he knew better than to try James – but Remus had simply given one of his patient half-smiles, half-shrugs and just said, "Maybe he's finally growing up."

It had made Peter want to scream.

 _Maybe I should talk about it to Feodor. I mean, it's not like I'm really asking about the future, so it wouldn't be breaking the promise we all made. Just a conversation about the present. Nothing wrong with that, is there?_

But even Sirius was not the worst of it.

It was Evan Rosier.

Ever since Peter had snuck into the Slytherin dorms, he felt as if Rosier knew his secret. He had seen Rosier looking intently at small holes in the castle walls, holes that – Peter knew from experience – were just large enough to fit a rat. Only two days ago, he caught a glimpse of Rosier casting something – Peter did not know what – at a large mouse in the halls. The mouse had seemed fine afterwards, at least, but Peter was getting more and more worried about transforming into Wormtail.

And now James was asking him to spy on the Slytherin quidditch tryouts and report back.

"Why can't you?" Peter asked. He hated the whine in his voice.

James rolled his eyes. "Because someone needs to sneak into Zonko's for more supplies. We need the cloak for that, since you're too small as Wormtail to carry anything back. We've a whole month before the first Hogsmeade weekend, and we're completely out of stink pellets."

"And dangerously low on Cantankerous Clankers," Sirius added in agreement. He turned to Peter. "Come on, mate. I mean, you don't have to if you don't want to," he added hastily. _Being nice_ , Peter thought with a slight grimace. "But you're the only one who can. Moony's no use, and Prongs and I aren't exactly inconspicuous. And we need to know what we're up against this year. And you're the only one who can tell us."

"I –" Peter hesitated. Sirius _was_ right, but Rosier would almost certainly be there. He might not be looking for a rat, though, and the quidditch pitch _was_ big . . . .

"Come on, Wormtail," James said. "It's not like anyone'll notice a rat. You're tiny when you transform."

"What's this?" a voice called from behind them. Peter turned to see Feodor.

"Nothing," Sirius said at once.

Feodor looked skeptical. "Really?"

"Yeah," Sirius said. "Just, er, talking about those transforming creams of yours. You know, the ones that turned Snivvy into a bat? And a canary? Those were brilliant. Thinking about turning him into a rat next."

"Right," James agreed hastily. "You know, because he's a twitchy little coward."

"Hey!" Peter snapped, insulted. There was nothing wrong with turning into a rat.

James winced. "Sorry, mate," he said.

"You really stepped in it there, Prongs," Sirius said. "Sorry, Wormtail. You know we think you're awesome, right?"

"Right," Peter lied.

Feodor turned to him. "So, I'm going to go out on a limb here, but I'm guessing that you can turn into a rat, right?"

Peter nodded before he could stop himself. James groaned. "Brilliant, Pete. Just give it away."

"You two sort of already did," Feodor said, rolling his eyes. "Go on, show me, then."

Peter transformed. Feodor let out a loud _whoop_. "That was _wicked_!" he exclaimed when Peter returned to human form. "Where'd you learn that? McGonagall didn't teach you, did she? That's bloody brilliant." Peter felt a wave of pride fill him.

"Hey, we can change, too," James said. "Move back." _Of course James can't let me have even a few seconds of being the center of attention_ , Peter thought bitterly. _And now Feodor will think he and Sirius are the best. As usual. Well, maybe not Sirius, but James, at least._ Even if Feodor was one of the only people who seemed to treat him as equal to James, rather than a sidekick, Prongs was a lot bigger and more majestic than Wormtail.

Feodor whistled as James turned into Prongs and Sirius into Padfoot. "Brilliant," he said again.

"See," Sirius said smugly. "We're pretty impressive ourselves."

Feodor's eyes hardened as they so often did when he looked at Sirius. "Not very useful, though, are they?" he asked. "I mean, completely awesome, but everyone's going to notice a great big stag or an enormous monster of a dog running around, aren't they?" Peter noticed Sirius flinch slightly at the word "monster." "Not like McGonagall turning into a cat. Now _that's_ useful. No one notices a cat. Or a rat. Blimey, but that's clever. Imagine what you could get away with. My brother had a pet rat a lot like that, you know. Carried him around and everything. No one would ever guess." Feodor suddenly bit his lip, as if he had said something he wished he hadn't. His ears turned pink, and he shook his head. "Bloody brilliant," he said again.

Peter's heart soared. People never though that he was _more_ impressive than James or Sirius. Never. "Alright," he said, euphoria overcoming good sense, "I'll spy on the Slytherin tryouts."

"Huh?"

"Slytherin quidditch tryouts are this morning," James snapped. Peter could tell that he was disgruntled about Feodor thinking Prongs was less impressive than a mere rat. "So I thought it'd be a good idea to see what we're up against." He tapped the quidditch captain badge on his chest.

"Makes sense," Feodor said. "Good luck, mate," he said to Peter.

Peter blinked. "You don't care?"

Feodor seemed surprised by the question. "That you're a rat animagus? Why would I? I mean, aside from begging you on hands and knees to teach me?" He dramatically fell to the floor and drew his hands together, twisting his face into a parody of supplication. Peter laughed, and even James and Sirius snorted in amusement. "No?" Feodor asked, face contorting tragically. "Alas!" He clapped his hands and jumped back up.

"No, I mean, that we're going to spy on the tryouts?"

When Feodor just looked confused, James cut in, "Because of your brother?"

"Oh! Nah, doesn't bother me," Feodor said. His face hardened, and he continued, "I mean, he hates Slytherin. Wish he'd never been Sorted there, no matter what Dumbledore said."

James and Sirius nodded. "Yeah," Sirius said. "He seems like an alright bloke. Not like the rest of them."

An hour later, seeing Gustav Vassilyev hit a bludger right into Snape, breaking the greasy bastard's arm, Peter had to agree. It had certainly been the only highlight of the seemingly endless tryouts. It looked like almost the entire House had come, even utterly hopeless cases. Peter cursed his decision to agree to spy. He liked quidditch as much as the next wizard, but he enjoyed watching the game, not watching practices, and certainly not watching scores of mediocre flyers try out. Gustav was pretty good, though, or he would be with a semi-decent broom. _I should tell James. Frank's a decent beater, but Tim graduated last year. Maybe Feodor is just as good as his brother, and James might have an old broom at home he could borrow. Feodor deserves something nice._

Peter was lost in watching the final two seeker hopefuls when he felt a strange tingling sensation wash over his entire body. He shivered. He recognized that feeling. It was the same one that Rosier had used when –

Everything went black.

* * *

Peter awoke to find himself tied to a chair, facing a wall. Five words were written on it.

 _TRANSFORM AND THE RAT DIES_

Peter trembled. He did not transform.

"Hello, Pettigrew," said a cool voice from behind him. Peter tried to turn to see who was speaking, but his bindings prevented the movement. "Relax," the voice said. "I see no reason to harm you. At least, not yet." Peter let out a small, rat-like squeak, and he hated himself for it. "You have a very impressive skill, you know. Animagi are quite rare. Only nine registered in Britain. Of course, _you_ are not registered, are you? I checked, you see. No Peter Pettigrew. No rats.

"Did you know that the penalty for being an unregistered animagus is a minimum of two years in Azkaban? A minimum! The average sentence is five years, although for some the term is even longer. Of course, you probably wouldn't get five. You're still underage, aren't you? Barely, at least. And Dumbledore does like you. Or he likes your friends Potter and Black, but that's close enough. He would probably speak on your behalf. So perhaps only the minimum.

"Then again, a small animagus like you could get into so much mischief! Have you gone to take a peek at the girls in the showers? Or do you prefer boys? After all, you did sneak into the Slytherin boys' dormitory. Not that I am judging. To each his own, as they say. But still, perhaps not _quite_ the minimum sentence. Not that it matters. I hear that most go mad within a few months. Many do not survive even their first year in Azkaban, did you know?"

"What – what do you want?" Peter squeaked.

"Oh, my dear Pettigrew. I simply want us to be friends," said Evan Rosier.

* * *

A/N:

Regarding Peter and his grades, "mostly _A_ s" is roughly equivalent to "mostly _C_ s." Also, earning an _O_ is hard but not ridiculously rare in canon. I am assuming that the only non- _O_ students in Potions in HBP were Harry and Ron, which means that about 10 students earned an _O_ on their Potions OWL. Given that, I think it's reasonable that someone who can become an animagus would be able to earn an _O_ in Transfiguration, whether or not he is particularly skilled at other subjects (or particularly studious, as the case may be).

And no, Fred did not make the Wormtail-Scabbers connection. He stopped talking because he inadvertently mentioned something about the future (Ron and Scabbers), even if it sounded to the others like he was talking about "Gustav" having a pet rat once.

Please review!


	16. Chapter 16: Double Trouble

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 16: Double Trouble**

\- October 25, 1976 –

At long last, the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year had arrived. It was only upon seeing the notice in their respective common rooms that Fred and George realized that neither of them had a signed permission form for this time period. Fortunately, Dumbledore was far more lenient with them than he had been for Harry last year.

"Well," George reasoned when Fred pointed this out on their way back from the Headmaster's office, "a deranged mass murderer isn't out to get us."

"No, he's only bunking next to me," Fred grumbled.

"We'll come up with something," George promised. "Or Snape will."

Fred raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Right, because he's been so very helpful so far."

George grimaced. Madam Pomfrey had spent nearly an hour trying to counter that tongue gluing spell before giving up and summoning a very surly Snape to the hospital wing to fix it himself. He was still partnering with George in Defense, but since then, he no longer made any attempt to keep things even. George found himself knocked out, thrown back, or tripped with pathetic regularity in nearly every class, while Snape shielded his nonverbal spells with an ease that had Professor Lyall doling out point after point to Slytherin. Nor had Snape deigned to speak with him again about the tracking spell project. _The git can certainly hold a grudge._

"Maybe we're going about this the wrong way," Fred suggested after a long pause.

"Oh? Pray tell."

"Well, what if we don't need a spell, say," Fred said. "Remember when we nearly got Ron to make that Unbreakable Vow with us?"

George's eyes widened. "Dad practically skinned us alive."

"Yeah," Fred agreed, wincing. They were young enough that they hadn't understood what they were doing, that they were risking their little brother's life for something so stupid as an extra helping of pudding.

"It's dark magic," George added uneasily. "I mean, not illegal, but still."

"I know," Fred agreed hastily. "But think about it. If we can get Black to swear to be somewhere at a given date and time, that's it. Either he shows up, and the aurors get him, or he dies, and there's one less insane Death Eater after Harry."

George shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, but . . . it's _dark magic_ , Fred." He glanced around the empty corridor. "It's a slippery slope. I hear about it a lot – and I do mean _a lot_ – in the Slytherin dorms. The more you do, the easier it gets." He paused, and then said, "I think that's part of what their 'training' is for, you know?"

Fred's ears turned pink as his temper flared. "I'm not talking about stuff like that!" he snapped. "I just think getting him to make a Vow – which _isn't_ illegal, like you said – would work."

"Fred –"

"No," he interrupted his twin. "You don't get it. I'm seeing it, right now. Peter is going mental. He's freaking out over the tiniest things. For the last few weeks, whenever someone looks at him, he jumps like he's been hit with a stinging hex. Even more so when Black says _anything_ to him, or gets near him, or just breathes loudly."

George exhaled slowly. "Alright," he said. "I'll think about it. If we can't come up with anything better by Christmas, okay? Since Dumbledore thinks we'll be going back home in late January or February, that should give us time to convince him to make a Vow, if we need him to, right?"

"Right," Fred said, relaxing. "Thanks, George. I know I must seem mental about this, but I need to do something. I _need_ to."

George waved a dismissive hand. "I know. Don't worry about it."

But Fred did.

* * *

Fred and George found a used camera of decent enough quality and several rolls of film at Oddette's Oddities. They had never seen the shop before, and they therefore assumed that it must have closed at some point before their first visit to the village. The camera had been a little cheaper than they had expected, and the twins decided to treat themselves to a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks with some of the extra pocket money that Dumbledore had given them.

"Rosmerta, my dear," called a stocky, grinning man with bright ginger hair as they entered.

"We have missed you terribly, my light –" cried the man next to him, who was identical down to the last freckle.

" – my stars," added the first.

" – my heart," they chorused.

Fred and George stood in the doorway, frozen in shock, as Rosmerta laughed and shooed the two men away with her hand. Someone jostled them, trying to enter the pub, causing the twins to blink and turn.

"I know Rosmerta's a treat, but let's try not to block the door, alright?" James Potter said, winking.

Rosmerta was lovely, perhaps even more alluring than she was in Fred and George's own time, but neither twin had paid her much attention. Their gazes had been wholly fixed on the two men. It was like looking into an odd mirror. They were looking at themselves, but slightly older. Maybe five or ten years at the most. For the first time, they were seeing their uncles as something other than the pictures that always caused their mother to cry. Fabian and Gideon Prewett were alive, and they were _here._

"Right," Fred said absently. "Sorry."

James winked again and moved past them towards the bar to order a drink.

"Look, Gabe!" one of the Prewett twins shouted, pointed at Fred and George. "Twins!"

"Excellent, Fide," said the other. "Let's buy them a drink." He waved Fred and George over. They glanced at one other for a brief moment, before hurrying over towards their uncles.

"I'm Gabe Prewett," said one. He jerked his head at his twin. "And this is Fide."

"Feodor Vassilyev," said George.

"Gustav," said Fred.

The one introduced as Fide – who Fred guessed was actually Gideon – chuckled and surreptitiously cast a notice-me-not spell and an anti-eavesdropping ward. As soon as he was done, his twin said, "So you're the two Dumbledore asked us about, huh?"

"Not much to look at, are they?"

"Weren't they supposed to look like our handsome mugs?"

"They were at that, Fabian. Fancy that, coming here and looking nothing like us."

"Well, maybe the face."

"True, true. Aside from that lamentable hair."

"And those eyebrows."

"One of them doesn't have eyebrows."

"True, true."

Probably-Gideon smiled a fierce, sharp smile that reminded Fred of a grindelow. "So, who are you, really? I'm guessing cousins or something? Unless Da did something that Mum would skin him for?"

"We're Feodor and Gustav Vassilyev," George said firmly. "Like we said."

"Nope," said probably-Fabian. "You're clearly Prewetts. Try again."

"And do be honest this time," probably-Gideon said, still with that disturbing smile. Fred wondered if he and George ever looked that intimidating. If not, they should probably learn.

"We hate being lied to," probably-Fabian added.

Fred exchanged glances with George. "We can't," he said.

"We promised Dumbledore," George added.

The Prewett twins' disturbing smiles faded. "Off you go then," said probably-Fabian. He raised his wand to cancel the privacy protections.

"Wait!" said George. Fred looked at him, surprised. "A letter," he said. "We might not get another chance." Fred's eyes widened, and he nodded vigorously in agreement.

"What's this?" asked probably-Gideon.

"Look," George said, "you have to promise not to say anything. If you do, things could be bad."

"In that people could die," Fred added.

The Prewett twins chuckled briefly before abruptly growing serious. "You mean it?" asked probably-Fabian.

Fred and George nodded. The Prewetts exchanged brief glances. Probably-Fabian raised an eyebrow, and probably-Gideon nodded. "Okay," said probably-Gideon.

"We promise," said probably-Fabian.

"We're from the future," said Fred. The Prewett twins choked. "We came here by accident. Dumbledore told us we couldn't mess with the timeline, or people could die."

Probably-Fabian laughed. "Good one."

"We mean it," said George.

"Wish we didn't," Fred muttered.

"That's impossible!" probably-Gideon snapped.

"Fabian, they look just like us," the other Prewett twin said slowly. _Oh, so that one's actually Gideon. Got them mixed up. Can't make as much fun of Mum for it, I guess_ , Fred thought ruefully. Gideon seemed shaken as he looked at Fred and George. "Are you my sons, or my nephews?"

"Nephews." George pointed at himself. "George Fabian Weasley." He pointed at George. "Fred Gideon Weasley."

"Molly's boys," Fabian whispered. "She has two more boys. Five boys." He smiled.

"Six," Fred said. "We have a younger brother, too."

"And a sister," George added.

Gideon whistled. "Seven kids. Good on you, Molly."

"Do we have any?" Fabian asked. Gideon turned to him. "What? You know Trudy wants kids someday."

"His girlfriend," Gideon said. "Though I guess you know that, seeing as how we're your uncles."

Fred paused. "No, no we didn't. You see –"

"Fred –" George began.

But Fred plunged recklessly on. He could not stop Sirius Black from killing the Potters. He could not save Peter Pettigrew. He could not rescue George from the Slytherin dorms. But he could do this. "You died," he said. "You both died. Right before we were born. It's why we were named after you."

"That's not funny," Gideon said. He and Fabian had turned very pale. Their freckles stood out sharply on their suddenly white faces.

"It's not meant to be," Fred said. "But you don't have to –"

"Fred, stop!" George shouted. "You can't tell them this! Dumbledore said we'd only make things worse."

"Worse?" Fabian asked. He sounded almost hysterical. "What could be worse than that?"

George glared at Fred before turning to Fabian. "Dumbledore said time does what it wants, and that it pushes back against change. So maybe you try to avoid what happens, but you both die anyway _and_ Mum dies, too. Or you both manage to survive, but the people you were protecting get killed because you weren't there to save them."

They sat in silence for a long minute. Fred felt sick. He should never have told his uncles the truth. They were happy just a few minutes ago, and now they weren't. All he ever wanted to do was make people happy, to make them laugh, and now Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon – who Mum swore always had a smile on their faces and a joke on their lips – were looking as glum and serious as Percy. And it was his fault. George had tried to stop him, and he had spoken anyway, despite Dumbledore's warnings.

"We died saving people?" Gideon asked at last.

"Yeah," Fred said softly. "A whole bunch. Posthumous Order of Merlin and everything."

"Oh."

After a few more seconds of silence, Gideon asked, "So what was this about a letter?"

"We thought – well, we thought that you might like to write a letter to Mum. You know, to say goodbye. And anyone else, too. Like Trudy. When we get back home, we can deliver them. It won't change the timeline, but it feels like the right thing."

Gideon shook his head as if to clear it. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that. You have any parchment?" Fred checked his pockets and pulled out a few sheaves of parchment and a quill. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"I don't want to remember this," Fabian said suddenly.

"What?" Gideon asked.

"I don't want to remember this," he repeated. "I'll write the letters, but that's it. I don't want this hanging over me. How am I supposed to go back to Trudy knowing what's going to happen? I can't pretend I didn't hear this." He looked straight at Gideon. "I want you to obliviate me."

"Fabian –"

"No, Gideon. Promise me. Promise me, or I'll make myself a forgetfulness potion and do it myself. Merlin's beard, Gid, but I'd have thought you'd be begging for that, too."

 _A forgetfulness potion_ , Fred thought. He remembered Snape teaching that when he and George were first years. It had been difficult to brew at the time, but it would be easy enough now that they were older. _We can use that when we ask everyone else to write letters. James and Lily and Peter and Katie's aunt, everyone. And then they won't have the shadow of their deaths looming over them._ He squirmed at the idea of modifying their memories, recalling the horrible state he had been after someone – George insisted it was Rosier – had obliviated him. _But a potion'll be safer. The oblivation was only that bad because it was done wrong. Besides, we'll make sure they all agree before taking it._

Gideon swallowed thickly. "I would. When I've done yours, you can erase mine. Maybe the last hour or so?"

Fabian nodded and then took one of the sheaves of parchment and began to write.

Finally, tears in their eyes, the Prewett twins finished their letters. They had co-written one to Molly Weasley, and Fabian had addressed another to Trudy Gonzalez. Fred did not recognize the name, and wondered if she was even still alive in their time. _Maybe she married someone else_ , he thought. Gideon had also written a second letter, but he paused before addressing it. "What're the names of your younger brother and sister?" he asked.

"Ron and Ginny. Well, Ronald and Ginevra, but no one calls them that," George said.

"Right." He wrote _Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny Weasley_ on the second letter and handed it to George. "Ready, Fabian?" he asked.

"Wait," George said. He held up the camera he and Fred had bought. "Before you do, can we get a picture?"

"Sure," Gideon said, forcing a smile. He cancelled the privacy charms and beckoned Rosmerta over.

"What can I get you boys?" she asked. "You look like you could use a pick-me-up."

"Could we get a picture?" Fred asked.

Rosmerta shrugged. "Sure." She took the camera and fiddled with it for a few seconds before taking a picture of the two sets of twins.

"Thanks," George said.

"Not a problem. Now, anything else I can get for you?"

"Two firewhiskeys," Gideon said. "And butterbeers for them." As Rosmerta hurried off with their orders, Gideon turned to Fabian and said softly, "You ready?" Fabian nodded, and Gideon pointed his wand at his brother. "Obliviate."

Fabian blinked in momentary confusion. "What?"

"Fabian, I need you to obliviate the last hour of my memory," Gideon said. "It's important, and I can't say why. But these two lads here are good people, and we shouldn't bother them with any questions. Dumbledore's _orders_ ," he added, with an odd stress on the last word that Fred and George did not understand.

Fabian blinked again before nodding. "Right-o," he said. He pointed his wand at Gideon. "Obliviate."

* * *

A/N: Happy New Year!

Please review!


	17. Chapter 17: Missed Points

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **A/N:** Warnings for cursing.

 **Chapter 17: Missed Points**

\- October 31, 1976 –

George awoke on Friday morning to a faint, barely distinct buzzing sound. It was not unpleasant, and it reminded him vaguely of spring at the Burrow. It was odd, though. Usually, the other boys in the dormitory were louder, either due to the quiet rustling as they readied themselves for the day or else from Wilkes's snores. Blinking sleepily, he opened the curtains of his four poster bed.

To his slight surprise, the dormitory was not empty despite the strange quiet. Mulciber, Wilkes, and Avery were nowhere to be seen, but Rosier sat on the edge of his bed facing Snape, who stood a few feet away, slightly hunched over in a clearly defensive posture. Both were already dressed in their uniform robes. Neither appeared to notice George.

Rosier's lips moved, but no sound came out. Snape shifted uncomfortably, and Rosier's lips stilled. Snape's head jerked in what might have been a nod, and then Rosier's lips moved again. And yet the only noise in the room remained that faint buzzing.

 _Snape's privacy spell_ , George realized. He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus enough to read Rosier's lips. He could only catch a few words, and he made a mental note to work with Fred on improving his skill at lip reading. ". . . . told you to . . . failure . . . disgrace . . . prove . . . on people . . . chance . . . test . . . tonight."

Snape shifted again, allowing George a clearer view of his face. His skin, unhealthy-looking at the best of times, looked more sallow than pale in the dungeon light. Even the whites of his eyes appeared yellowish. Snape opened his mouth as if to speak, but then he closed it abruptly and nodded. In that brief moment, George caught a glimpse of Snape's yellowing, crooked teeth. George frowned. There was something wrong with that sight.

 _Why?_ A small part of him asked. _Snape's always looked like that. Never fancied looking him in the eye before, but the rest seems normal enough. Sallow skin. Crooked, yellowing teeth._

 _Were Snape's teeth yellowing at the start of term, though?_ George tried to remember. He thought they had been white. Crooked, but white. _He's a potions master, or he will be. Surely he could get himself some decent toothpaste._ George knew that Snape brushed his teeth at least twice a day, too, using the standard Hogwarts-issued toothpaste like most of the other students. _Then again, he showers two or even three times a day, too. He's obsessive about it, and yet his hair always looks greasy and unwashed. A potions master should be able to brew a working shampoo. I used to think he just never bathed, but he does. And it can't just be potions fumes, like Percy claimed. No potions guild worth its cauldron would fail to invent a shampoo to protect again fumes that did that, for vanity if nothing else. Besides, Slughorn's around potions all the time, too, and his mustache always looks fine._

There was something wrong with Snape. And whatever it was, it was more than just those weird injuries that kept appearing on him.

Rosier's lips began moving again. ". . . . –er prospects . . . trust . . . dark . . . blood will . . . not my only . . . else."

Snape jerked his head in another nod. He flicked his wand, and the buzzing sound filling the room stopped. He turned and finally seemed to notice George. "Good morning," George said cheerfully.

"Vassilyev," Snape acknowledged. His tone was cool yet polite, but what little of his expression George could see looked hard and angry.

"And to you," Rosier said, nodding courteously. "I trust you slept well?"

"Oh, yes," George replied.

"We'll be late to Arithmancy," Snape said curtly.

Rosier sighed. "We can't have that, can we?" He jumped off his bed in a fluid motion and gestured for Snape to precede him out the room. Snape scowled through his curtain of hair, but nevertheless grabbed his old, worn book bag and left the room. Rosier followed after him, giving George a faint, almost mocking smile as he left.

 _What in Merlin's name was that about?_

* * *

Fred brought the camera to Potions. He and George had discussed how best to make use of it, and had decided to try for as broad a mix of images as they could get. Their subjects would all be dead when they got back home, and their families would never see them smiling with friends, or reading a book, or eating lunch ever again. Fred had suggested that at least one of the "studious" pictures of Harry's parents be of them in Potions, and George had agreed. They reasoned that, as Slughorn's office was covered in photographs of former students, he should be at least somewhat amenable to them bringing a camera to class. McGonagall, on the other hand, might give them detention or confiscate the camera.

"You mind?" Fred asked Lily after she had arranged her things at their shared table. Slughorn had yet to come into the classroom.

Lily shrugged. "Sure, I guess," she said.

"It's not going to explode confetti on everything when you take the photo, is it?" Alice asked suspiciously as she walked into the room, moving past George to sit in the fourth seat at their table.

Fred and George blinked. "No," said George.

"Great idea, though," Fred said. He mentally added that to their list of potential joke shop products. _The Exploding Confetti Camera_.

"Or cover us in ink?" Alice persisted. _Even better. Maybe George and I can hire her when we get back home. Assuming the Ministry doesn't suck all the fun out of her._

George put his hand to his heart in mock horror. "Why would you ever suggest such a thing?"

"Um, I've met you?" Alice said sarcastically.

Noticing that Lily was looking increasingly less enthusiastic about having her picture taken, Fred said hurriedly, "It really is safe, promise."

"Yeah, we're not thick enough to prank two prefects," George added.

"Not this obviously, anyway," Fred agreed.

Alice snorted. "Fine. I withdraw my objections. Good luck, Lily."

"Oh, no," Lily said. "After all that build up, you're getting in the shot with me."

"Oho!" came Slughorn's booming voice. Fred and George jumped. They had not noticed the professor come in. "What's this? Thinking of taking a photo during class, boys?" he asked, waggling a finger at the twins.

"Er –" Fred began, wondering if he and George has misjudged Slughorn.

"Now, normally I'd take points for disrupting the lesson, but I think I can let some of my top students get away with it. Just this once, though!" he added with a wink.

"Come and join us, Professor," Lily said. With faux innocence, she added, "The twins were just telling us how the camera was perfectly safe and not remotely pranked."

 _Damn. Now I really wish we_ had _done something fun to the camera._

Slughorn chuckled. "Well, how I can refuse?" He moved to stand between Lily and Alice. He beamed, and Lily and Alice smiled as well. Fred snapped a quick picture. _Not what I expected to get for Harry, but I guess beggars can't be choosers._

When nothing happened, Sirius turned to James and said in a mock whisper, "You know, Prongs, I was really expecting a bit more of a bang after all that."

"I do hope you two lads make a copy for me," Slughorn said, either not hearing Sirius or choosing to ignore him. "I so love having photographs with my top students. Say, why don't you bring that camera of yours to tonight's little party? Commemorate the event, you know?" he added with another wink.

 _Huh. Who would have guessed it'd be that easy to get permission to bring the camera? Especially with how coveted these invitations seem to be, you'd think it'd be poor form or something._ "Will do, Professor," George promised.

"Happy to oblige!" Fred added.

* * *

Fred realized glumly that he and George should not have assumed that Slughorn's parties were wild, crazy, or, for that matter, even particularly interesting. _Great for networking, not so great for fun._ About two dozen other students were already mingling quietly when the twins arrived. Slughorn beamed at them when they entered, waving them over. "Welcome, welcome!" he gushed. "So glad you could make it! Your first time at one of my little parties. Have you met everyone here? You know Evan Rosier, naturally, such a wonderful example as a prefect. And Miss Evans, too. Brilliant student, she'll go far. And over there is Miss Talbott, who of course you're friends with as well. She's with her young man, Frank Longbottom. Head Boy, and on track to become an auror. I introduced them both to my dear friend Amelia – that's Auror Amelia Bones, of course. And there's . . . ."

Fred barely managed to turn his choke of surprise into a cough. He had seen the tall blond boy in the Gryffindor common room, but he never would have guessed who he was. Seeing him with Alice, he suddenly realized why she looked somehow familiar. She looked just like Neville Longbottom. _Or, rather, Neville looks just like her._ He glanced at George, whose eyes went wide as he made the same connection. _Neville's raised by his grandmother, isn't he? Damn, Alice must not make it._ Fred felt tears forming and angrily blinked them away.

"And you'll never guess who our special guest is for tonight!" Slughorn continued, oblivious.

"Oh?" Fred asked, forcing a smile.

Slughorn winked. "You'll see!" he said, tapping the side of his nose with one plump finger. "Now go off and have fun. And do be sure to take some pictures!"

Fred and George shrugged and moved off as Slughorn greeted the strikingly beautiful Jezebel Flourish, who had just arrived.

"Another two we need to get letters from," Fred whispered. George nodded glumly. Fred watched as Frank Longbottom laughed at something Alice was saying. He brought up his camera and took a picture.

George turned away, unable to see them so happy, knowing that they were going to die. "I hate this," he mumbled. Fred nodded morosely. _So much for finding her when we get back home._

"And here he is, the man of the hour, the founder of Zabini Zoologicals himself!" Slughorn proclaimed loudly, gesturing dramatically as an ancient wizard shuffled his way across the room. Fred supposed that he would have been of average height if he were not so stooped. Neither his wispy white hair nor his dark Mediterranean skin could hide the liver spots marring his features. "Sandro Zabini!" Slughorn boomed. The newcomer raised his hands in greeting. They shook slightly with the tremors of age.

"Horace!" Zabini said, his voice a croak. "And my dearest Jezebel," he added more softly, smiling at the Slytherin sixth-year prefect who had followed Slughorn as he moved to greet the elderly wizard.

"Sandro," Flourish said, practically cooing the name. Slughorn looked between the two I surprise. Flourish turned to him and said, smiling, "We wanted you to be the first to know, Professor, didn't we darling? Since we only met because of you."

"Know? Know what?" Slughorn asked.

"I've asked for Jezebel's hand in marriage, and she has done me the great honor of accepting," Zabini said.

The room fell utterly silent. Slughorn's face crumpled into a parody of dismayed horror before he seemed to rally himself. He smiled, but it was almost convincing. "My word!" he exclaimed. He took out a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at his forehead. "That is – that is quite a surprise, Sandro! My congratulations, of course." It came out almost as a question as he turned to Flourish. She beamed back at her Head of House, and her expression conveying to all the world that she was completely enthralled by her new fiancé. It looked absolutely genuine, and yet Fred doubted anyone present – save perhaps the smitten Zabini – believed it to be any more authentic than Slughorn's smile. "I was not aware that you were of even of age yet, Miss Flourish. Although, I suppose I won't be able to call you that for much longer, will I? Will you – do you believe you will be continuing your education next year? I dare say Slytherin would be all the poorer without one of our best prefects."

"I turned seventeen last week," Flourish said. "And Sandro was so kind to come all the way up to Hogsmeade to propose. He reserved the entire tea shop! He is such a romantic dear, isn't he?" She smiled adoringly at Zabini, who leered back.

Fred noticed that she did not address the question of whether or not she would remain at Hogwarts. Slughorn apparently noticed that as well, for his smile wavered momentarily. "Well, congratulations again! I am so very happy for you both, of course."

The party, such as it was, fell back into an awkward silence. Regulus Black then made his way across the room to congratulate Flourish. He managed to make his well wishes sound far more convincing than Slughorn had. By then, the other guests had managed to shake themselves from their stunned shock, and in groups of ones and twos they came forward to offer their token congratulations to the couple.

* * *

In retrospect, it was inevitable.

No one, no matter how careful, could avoid losing House points forever. Even perfect prefect Percy had lost a few over the years.

Filch taking five points for running in the corridor, though, not ten minutes after he had parted ways with Fred. . . . Well, if he had to lose points, George would have wished they were spent on something more fun. And that the point loss hadn't been on a Friday, just a few minutes before curfew. When he had no chance whatsoever to earn them back.

 _Damn it._

George seriously considered not returning to the Slytherin dorms that night.

Of course, then there would be the next night. And then the night after that. He would have to return eventually, or people would ask questions. And that would risk the timeline.

 _I hate this bloody timeline._

George sucked in a deep breath. _You can do this,_ he told himself. _Are you a brave Gryffindor, or a cowardly Slytherin?_

Snape hadn't seemed like a coward when he knelt in front of Mulciber, accepting his crucio.

 _Maybe that's why Snape's so mental._

 _Damn it._

 _At least Fred doesn't know. He'd freak out._

 _Hell,_ I _'m freaking out._

In stark contrast to the jog that had earned him his ill-timed point loss, George walked the remaining corridors to the Slytherin dungeons at a funereal pace.

 _Maybe it's recent enough that Rosier won't know about it yet. Sure, next week'll start at a deficit, but I can make it up._

Rosier looked up as George entered the sixth year boys' dormitory. "And there he is. We were just going over the points for the week, Vassilyev. Sorry, old man, seems you're out of luck this this. And at the last minute, too." He shook his head, as if commiserating with him.

George wanted to punch him. Instead, he took a steadying breath. He considered kneeling as he had seen Snape do, but he rejected that almost immediately. He would stand and face this like a Gryffindor.

Rosier cast a set of privacy wards. When he was done, he turned back to George and raised an eyebrow upon seeing him still standing. "Hmmmm," he said. George wondered what that was supposed to mean. "Well, Avery, you're up first this week."

Avery smiled nastily as he pointed his wand at George. "Sectumsempra!" he shouted.

George screamed as his flesh tore apart. Gashes erupted across his chest and arms. He collapsed, screaming, onto the floor.

"What the fuck was that, Snape?" George heard Avery cry out, his voice cracking as he dropped his wand. "You didn't say it would kill him!" The room was growing fuzzy.

"Fix him!" _That's Rosier's voice_ , George thought through a haze of pain. Then there was a long, low chant, and George felt a creeping sensation wash across his skin. The pain began to ease.

"Drink this." That was Snape's deep voice. Someone poured a potion in George's open mouth. It tasted metallic. George swallowed without thinking The world focused, becoming more distinct. "He'll be fine," Snape said.

"Fuck you," George ground out.

Mulciber clapped Avery on the back, causing him to stumble. "Good work there," Mulciber said. Avery let out an hysterical gasp of laughter and then clumsily bent down to pick up his fallen wand. He collapsd onto the nearest bed.

"You good there, Vassilyev?" Rosier asked. "We can hold off the rest until tomorrow if you like. You do seem a tad unwell, you know." He somehow managed to sound genuine, as if he truly cared about George's health.

George did not trust the smarmy bastard for an instant.

He paused for only a moment. "Let's get this over with." Despite the shakiness in his limbs begging him to stay on the ground, he forced himself to stand back up.

Rosier raised an eyebrow. "Good man," he said. "Well, I'm next. I'll take it easy on you, shall I? Given that little scare. Don't want to push things too far, after all. Rictumsempra!" George flinched involuntarily as he heard the last few syllables, the spell Avery had used all too fresh in his mind.

 _Relax, it's just a tickling charm._ George laughed. He laughed and laughed. He fell back onto the floor, which was still wet with his blood, laughing and laughing. He doubled over, clutching his chest. Tears streamed down his face as the paroxysms of laughter grew painful.

 _Why would he pick something like this?_ George wondered as he fought to breathe through the aching laughs that wracked his entire body.

It was only after Rosier finally lifted the spell that he understood. _It makes him look benevolent and me look weak. Felled by a first year tickling charm. Sounds like that curse Avery used, though. Might be a move against him, too. Or maybe Snape, if it's another of his damnable inventions._

Mulciber and Wilkes each paused before they, too, selected basic first year spells. Mulciber sneered as he hit George with a jelly legs jinx, and George understood that their choices were as much a mark of their contempt for him as anything else. _Not that I'm complaining given the circumstances._

Finally, it was Snape's turn. He tilted his head to the side for a long moment, no doubt contemplating what simple spell to mock George with. And then Snape smirked, and George felt a sudden chill.

"Legilimens!" Snape shouted.

 _A twelve-year-old George diced flobberworms next to Fred in Potions class. Beside them, Lee's cauldron exploded. Snape stormed through the resulting smoke and hissed, "Ten points from Gryffindor!"_

 _The scene shifted. George wore Slytherin robes and asked Fred, "Dumbledore'd never have hired him if he'd been a Death Eater, would he?"_

 _The scene shifted. The twins were in the library with the teenaged Snape. "You're not joining the Death Eaters –" Fred began._

 _"– for a girl?" George finished, wheezing with his own laughter._

 _The scene shifted. George saw Lily Evans smiling as she waved goodnight to Alice Talbott after Slughorn's party. He felt hollow. It was terrible, knowing that such wonderful people were doomed to die because of You-Know-Who . . . ._

George fell to the floor. Dimly, he was aware of Snape staggering back, of his sallow face turning ashen, of the other boys calling out in confusion. He wondered what had just happened.

And then he remembered what Fred had described when Dumbledore had looked into his eyes. It hit him then, exactly how much trouble he was in.

 _Snape just read my mind. He saw everything that I did._

* * *

A/N:

Yes, Jezebel Flourish is the future mother of Blaise Zabini.

I'm assuming that Fred and George do not know what happened to Neville's parents, beyond them being out of the picture, since Ron and Ginny did not know the details until OotP.

As for the strength of the sectumsempra here vs. in HBP, I'm assuming that George's recovery was faster than Draco's because Snape was able to provide the counterspell and a healing potion immediately rather than after a slight delay. If you prefer, you can instead argue that that the spell is still under development or that Draco is more of a hypochondriac than George is.

Please review!


	18. Chapter 18: Truth and Consequences

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 18: Truth and Consequences**

\- November 1, 1976 –

George awoke early on Saturday morning, tired and worried after a restless night. After the previous evening's "training" session, Snape had stared at him with wide, horrified eyes for several seconds before turning and practically fleeing the dormitory. Avery had tried to follow and been blasted back, colliding heavily with one of the beds. Rosier had watched with half-lipped eyes that seemed to hide amusement and speculation in equal measure before he turned to George and smiled. "Well," he said dryly, "that was more interesting than I had expected. Care to explain, Vassilyev?"

George had not, and, claiming fatigue, went to bed earlier than he normally did on a Friday night. He tossed and turned for hours, wondering how he could possibly salvage the situation. He and Fred had not made any forgetfulness potion yet. Although it did not take long to brew, he did not have all of the ingredients here with him. Snape might, but he could not risk breaking into Snape's trunk, not with the other boys in the dormitory and Merlin-knew what wards Snape had placed on it. He would therefore need to get the flufferduff pollen from the student stores, which would have to wait until the morning. By then, it would already be too late. The forgetfulness potion only covered memories formed within the last five hours. And he did not know how to cast the obliviate spell, nor did he trust his ability to learn it and cast it with enough precision to avoid causing lasting damage, not after what had happened to Fred.

 _Maybe I can ask Dumbledore. He's the most powerful wizard in the world. Surely he can do it. He can't find out the details of the memory itself, though . . . . Maybe he can just cast it so Snape forgets everything that happened in the last half day or so?_

That seemed like a good idea. Dumbledore would be disappointed in him, probably, for letting the information slip – not that he had any idea how he could have blocked Snape's spell – but he and Fred were always getting into trouble for one thing or another. He could handle that. It beat the risk of Snape changing the timeline, at least.

 _Unless he's already gone off and done something to mess it all up._

Unable to sleep any longer, George checked the time. It was a little before five in the morning. _Well, curfew ends at six. I guess I can make an early start of it and tell Dumbledore before Snape has a chance to do much. Me, going to a teacher, who ever would have guessed?_ With that thought, George got out of bed and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a quick shower. On his way there, he noticed that Snape's bed was empty, and he wondered if Snape had even returned to the dormitory last night.

After changing into one of the sets of casual robes that Dumbledore had provided for him, George left the boys' dormitory into the common room, deciding to head as quickly as possible for the headmaster's office. It was still a little before six o'clock, but he decided simply to hope he would not get caught rather than wait any longer. Before he could leave, however, he heard Snape's low voice call out, "Vassilyev, we need to talk."

George turned. The common room was dark and deserted except for him and Snape, who sat in one of the armchairs in the far corner of the room, still wearing his uniform from the previous night. _Guess that answers the question of whether or not he came to bed._ A small pile of books were arranged on the table beside him. George could just barely make out their titles: _Mental Arts for Mental Sorts_ , _Advanced Ancient Runes_ , and _Unfogging the Future_. George hoped that last book was a coincidence, but the presence of the first made him doubt it. _But then, what does the NEWT Runes textbook have to do with what happened last night?_ he thought, trying to reassure himself. Snape gestured for George to join him. When George hesitated, he said, "It's still before curfew. Wouldn't want to get in trouble, would we?"

Mentally cursing his future least favorite professor, George warily approached, one hand reaching into his robes to grip his wand in case Snape tried anything. "What do you want, Snape?" he asked, more belligerently than he had intended, when he was only a few feet away.

Snape paused only to cast his privacy spell before asking, his voice low and harsh, "How does Lily Evans die?"

 _Shit_ , George thought. "I don't know what you mean," he bluffed.

"Liar," Snape hissed. "I saw it in your mind. Somehow, you've seen the future."

Snape's wand was already in his hand. George knew from painful experience in Defense class that he was no match for Snape one on one, not when they both had their wands out. Instead, he moved a few steps back and released his grip on his pocketed wand. He raised his empty hands in what he hoped would be taken as a placating gesture. "Look, Snape, I don't know what that spell was that you used on me last night. I don't want any trouble with you. No hard feelings over whatever you did. I get it, it's just training. No need to make a big deal about it."

Snape's black eyes glinted dangerously in the dim light. "I know what I saw, Vassilyev. I _know_. The question, therefore, is why do you deny it? And, perhaps, what will it cost to convince you to tell me? Homework? Certain potions? A custom hex? What is your price for Lily Evans' life?" He rose from his chair and then knelt gracefully to the floor. All of the hostility had left his face, leaving only a desperate plea. "Ask. Whatever it is, I will pay it."

George felt terrible. Here was Snape, kneeling on the floor in front of him, begging him for the life of a girl who would not even speak to him anymore. And he was the monster who had to refuse to help. "I can't," he whispered. "I promised Dumbledore."

Snape's expression transformed instantly. So much murderous hate radiated from it that George half-suspected that it alone could cast the killing curse, wand or no wand. George took an involuntary step back before he realized that Snape's rage was not directed at him. Snape leapt to his feet and let out a long stream of curses that would have had George in detention for a month if he uttered even one of them in Professor Snape's hearing. "Of course the fucking bastard said that. He's doesn't give a damn. I would have thought _she_ would be different, one of his golden Gryffindors, but apparently even that was expecting too much of the self-righteous bastard," Snape spat, but he seemed to be talking more to himself than to George.

"What?" George said. "No, it's not like that." Snape turned his fury-filled eyes to him, and George felt compelled to explain, "He said that if we try to change anything, more people would die. That things could be worse. Keeping silent would keep the greatest number of people safe."

Snape snorted in derision. "And you believed him?" he sneered.

"Well, yeah. He's Albus Dumbledore."

"Let me tell you a story about your sainted Dumbledore's judgment. Let me know if this sounds at all familiar. Last April, a student here at this school decided to kill one of his enemies. He lured his enemy into an enclosed space, an enclosed space that the student knew would contain a fully transformed werewolf. The plan nearly worked, but one of his co-conspirators got cold feet at the last minute, so the victim was only scratched, not bitten. And what do you think you precious Dumbledore did?"

George shook his head, his eyes wide. He could guess who the werewolf was, and who the victim was. He remembered the scars he had seen on Snape's torso, the ones that looked like they came from some wild beast. _Lupin almost killed Snape as a student? And he's still in the school?_

"Nothing. Dumbledore assigned detention. Attempted murder, and all it was worth was _detention_. No additional safety precautions around the werewolf, no calls for arrest, _nothing_. Because no one was _actually_ killed, and any punishment would harm more innocents than simply letting _bygones be bygones_. It was just a _prank_. And if the injured student spoke about what had happened, _he_ would be the one obliviated and expelled. For 'willingly endangering the innocent.'"

"That's not a prank," George said faintly. What he and Fred did were pranks. That was attempted murder, just like Snape said. "Who was it?" he asked, and then answered his own question. "Black."

Snape nodded sharply, and George felt sick. _Of course it was Black. He was a murderous psychopath even as a student. Dumbledore could have stopped him right then, and the Potters and Peter would still be alive._

Snape apparently recognized that George was beginning to waver, for he knelt once again and begged, "Please. Please, let me save her."

"I – I can't. I don't know if I can even trust you, Snape," George said. "How do I know you were even telling me the truth about Lupin just now?" Snape smirked, and George suddenly realized he had made a mistake. Nowhere in Snape's story had he mentioned the name of the werewolf. Hastily, he added, "You said you'd be expelled if you told anyone, so why tell me? Either you're lying about what happened, or you're asking Dumbledore to expel you." _Which clearly didn't happen, so either I don't tell Dumbledore this part, or Snape was lying about it. Probably lying. There's no way Dumbledore'd do anything like that._

 _Except that he_ was _pretty unfair to the Slytherins before this_ year, George reminded himself. _Fred and I saw those records in Filch's office. Even if they deserve to be punished for the other stuff they get up to, he was harsher with them than he was with the Gryffindors._

Snape flinched, but then tried to turn the movement into a shrug. "I probably will be. But saving her is worth the risk. Besides, you already see the truth of what I said yourself. You knew who the werewolf was, who the would-be murderer was, without me needing to tell you their identities. But name your terms. What must I do to earn your trust?"

George stared at him for a few seconds, noticing Snape's sallow skin and yellow-tinged eyes, a faint bruise on his neck that had not been there yesterday. He tried to assess Snape's sincerity. He definitely wanted Lily Evans safe; George had seen him defend her too often to doubt that. The story about Black and Lupin was probably true, too. Black _was_ a crazed killer, everyone knew that. A Death Eater fanatic like him would probably hate Snape just for being a half-blood in Slytherin, let alone a Slytherin who did not intend to join You-Know-Who. And, if he had succeeded, Lupin would probably have been executed. Lupin was a good person, even if he was a werewolf, and Black must have known he would refuse to join You-Know-Who.

It didn't make sense, though, that Dumbledore would try to cover it up. Yes, telling what had happened could have gotten Lupin in trouble with the Ministry, but they had to already know he was a werewolf because of the Registry, there was no way around that, and _Black_ was the person at fault. And threatening Snape made no sense, unless there were parts of the story that he had left out. Then again, Black seemed to have everyone fooled, so maybe Dumbledore had believed his version of events – whatever that version was – over Snape's. He _had_ admitted that he was wrong in how he treated the Slytherins after he and Fred had pointed it out to him, after all.

 _But being wrong about that isn't the same as being wrong about the risks of time travel, is it? Or did he just have one bad experience and now assumes that_ everyone _will?_

 _But he's Dumbledore! He knows everything, doesn't he?_

 _To hell with it._ "Tell me what's wrong with you," George said at last. _If I change my mind, I can still ask Dumbledore to obliviate him._ "Why're you always getting hurt? Oh, and sit back down. I feel like a prat, having you kneel in front of me like that."

Snape rose from the floor and returned to the armchair. After a moment's pause, George sat in a matching chair across from him. "I used blood magic. There's an old ritual designed to protect the heir to a family who goes off to battle. The parents share in any injuries, and any healing done to them carries over to their heir."

"You have a kid?" George burst out, shocked.

"Don't be absurd. I . . . modified the ritual."

"You modified it?" George repeated weakly.

Snape glared at him. "I reversed it. Rather than my parents sharing my injuries, I take on theirs."

George stared at him. "Are they quidditch players or something?"

"Of course not."

"Then, how . . . . I mean, you get hurt a lot. Way more than normal, even if it's for two other people."

Snape shifted uncomfortably, allowing his hair to fall over his face. "Muggles are violent."

"But you're a half-blood," George said reasonably. "Unless . . . Snape, you _are_ a half-blood, aren't you? Not that I'd care if you're not," he added quickly.

"Yes," Snape hissed. "My mother was a Prince." George nodded. That family sounded vaguely familiar. Old, pureblooded. Not You-Know-Who supporters, he thought, but definitely pro-blood purity. _And one of them married a muggle?_

"Then I don't get it," George said. "I mean, your mum would be able to protect herself and your dad, right?"

"She . . . her wand broke," Snape admitted.

 _And it's clear you don't have any money, so I guess no hope of getting a new one._ George winced. "Damn. Sorry. But even so, they shouldn't get hurt like that. I mean, muggles just aren't that dangerous."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. "Not dangerous?" Snape snarled, rising to his feet in sudden fury. "Do you know what a burning at the stake means if you do not have your wand, Vassilyev? It means you burn to death."

"They don't do that anymore!" _They didn't, did they? No, Dad would know about it if they did. He'd have said something, or Lee would have. He takes Muggle Studies._

"Did you know that muggles have a policy called 'Mutually Assured Destruction?' It's called that because the Americans and the Russians loathe one another, and if they should ever get into a war, a real war, they can actually destroy the world."

"You're joking," George scoffed. "That sounds like a _Quibbler_ headline."

"Hiroshima. A whole city. Gone, like that," Snape said. He snapped his fingers. "Muggles are _brutal_. They despise anyone the least bit different, and they are vicious in their brutality. Either they kill us all because we can do magic and they can't, or they kill us all as collateral damage when trying to kill each other."

"So you think You-Know-Who is right?" George demanded angrily.

"At least he understands their threat and is doing something about it!"

"He kills Lily!" George shouted back. "He was after he, and he killed her!"

"Why would the Dark Lord target her?" Snape whispered.

"Because that's what You-Know-Who does! She's a muggleborn, or had you forgotten? He hates muggles, just like you, apparently. She's just a mudblood to him –"

"Don't call her that!" Snape hissed, pointing his wand at George, who froze.

"Fine," George snapped back. "But that's what he thinks of people like her. It doesn't matter how brilliant she is, or how pretty, or whatever it is about her that makes you so obsessed. So he killed her."

"When? When does he kill her?"

George threw up his hands. "Halloween, 1981. There, are you happy now?"

"And I do not become a Death Eater?" Snape asked.

"No! Weren't you listening? You-Know-Who wanted to get rid of muggleborns, and he wasn't exactly keen on half-bloods, either."

Snape nodded slowly. Then he smiled. "Thank you, Vassilyev. You may go." With a flick of his wand, he cancelled the privacy charm.

George blinked, startled. "Right," he said slowly. _I just gave him everything he wanted to know. Damn it. I need to tell Dumbledore._ He turned and hurriedly left the common room before Snape changed his mind.

* * *

"I see," Dumbledore said gravely once George had finished relaying what had happened, leaving out the details of what exactly Snape had seen and what they had discussed that morning, even though George badly wanted to ask about Black and Lupin. "That is most troubling."

 _You don't know the half of it. "_ Can you modify his memory?" George asked hopefully.

"Oh, I dare say I can, my boy," Dumbledore said. "And I shall. But if you recall what I said when you and your brother arrived here, I warned that I might have to isolate you for the sake of the timeline."

George did remember. "But, Professor –"

Dumbledore held up a hand, silencing him. "I must think about it. For the moment, though, expecto patronum." A bright silvery phoenix erupted from his wand. "Please let Professor McGonagall know that I wish to see both Mister Snape and Mister Feodor Vassilyev in my office as soon as possible." The phoenix bowed its head in acknowledgement and vanished through the wall.

A few minutes later, a groggy-looking Fred entered the office. "What happened?" he asked, yawning.

"Snape did some mind reading thing and found out about, well, a lot," George said with a _tell you later_ shrug.

"Bastard," Fred swore. Dumbledore coughed. "Er, sorry, Professor."

"I daresay I have heard worse applied to Mister Snape, but even so, do try and be civil. Ah, there he is now," Dumbledore said as someone knocked on the door to the office. "Enter."

Snape came in, still wearing the same clothes as the day before. George realized with a start that he must not have taken a shower either this morning or the night before. As far as he knew, that was the first time Snape had ever skipped it. Snape's eyes darted from George to Fred before focusing on Dumbledore. "Sir."

"Please take a seat, all of you," Dumbledore said, conjuring two extra chairs with his wand, each on either side of George. Fred sat immediately in the one on the right. After a brief pause, Snape warily sat on the chair on the left. "Excellent. Now, Mister Snape, I am given to understand that you have learned some facts that should not be widely known, lest innocent lives be endangered. You may recall our conversation in this office last term. Unlike then, I fear that I cannot simply trust in your silence, as knowledge alone is too great a risk." _So Snape's obliviation story was probably true_ , George noted, his heart sinking. "I fear that I have no choice but to oblivate you under these circumstances."

Snape stood abruptly, pushing back the conjured chair. "No!" he snarled. "She'll die!"

"Mister Snape!" Dumbledore's reprimand echoed through the room.

"No, Headmaster," Snape hissed. "No, it's not enough for –"

Snape threw himself to the side as Dumbledore shot a silent stunner at him. He reached for his wand but did not have time to draw it before the headmaster's second spell hit him in the chest. On the walls of the office, the portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses, normally snoozing in their frames, were all awake, avidly watching events. Some yelled at Snape for his impertinence, while others chided Dumbledore for stunning a student.

"Blimey," whispered Fred.

Dumbledore sighed, looking very old. "I am very sorry it had to come to this," he said to Snape's unconscious body. "Not least because, I suspect, your actions were morally justified. And yet, once again, I find myself forced to follow the path that will save the most lives." He pointed his wand at Snape's temple. "Obliviate." He sighed again and turned back to the twins. "And now I must decide what to do with you. Alas, I fear that Mister Snape may again try legilimency on one or both of you, and then we would again be in this situation. I shall make it clear that he is forbidden from doing so, of course. I am rather astounded that he managed it in the first place. The mental arts are rarely learned, and legilimency so young reminds me of . . . . Well, it seems that Mister Snape has hidden the true extent of his abilities.

"In any event, I will give the pair of you one last chance. Neither of you were at fault in this instance. Let me know if anything else should occur, and I will reevaluate the situation then." The twins let out identical sighs of relief. "And now, go ahead and run along to breakfast. I have no doubt that the house elves have surpassed themselves as usual. I must have a word with young Mister Snape."

* * *

So, Dumbledore had obliviated him. Ever since the Shrieking Shack, Severus knew that it would only be a matter of time. He had begun his study of the mind arts then. Occlumency supposedly could protect against memory charms. It had not done so in this case. _I will have to work harder on my shields_ , he thought. Oddly, though, Dumbledore had not removed the memory of the murder attempt. _What, then, did he take?_

Fortunately, he was a Slytherin. He had a backup plan. Once the old man had finally finished lecturing him on not using legilimency on a fellow student – which was _not_ illegal or even against the school rules, he had checked – he returned to the Slytherin dorms and retrieved his Ancient Runes textbook. It took him longer to find it than he had expected, as he had apparently left in the common room rather than his trunk. As had become his daily habit since that terrible night in April, he flipped to the beginning of the dictionary section. In minute handwriting at the bottom of the page were a string of seemingly random letters. It was longer than he remembered it being. _Good, the plan worked._

He mentally translated the string of text using the cipher he had invented for himself and Lily years ago. _April 15, 1976 – Lupin: werewolf in Shrieking Shack. Black knew, sent me there to die. Potter knew. Dumbledore covered it up._

 _September 2, 1976 – Rosier recruiting for Dark Lord. Accepted my neutrality. Mulciber objected, Rosier overruled him._

And below those were two unfamiliar entries.

 _October 31, 1976 – Vassilyev knows the future. Lily dies, reason related to Dark Lord._

 _November 1, 1976 – Vassilyev's knowledge confirmed. Dark Lord targets Lily, kills her Halloween 1981. I do not join the Dark Lord._

Snape read the new entries twice, making sure he was not missing anything. _Dumbledore removed my memory. He won't help save Lily._

 _I have to change what happens._

Two hours later, after having examined and reexamined what options he had, Snape found Rosier sitting alone in the library. "I have reconsidered," Snape murmured. He touched two fingers to his left forearm. Rosier smiled.

* * *

A/N:

Regarding the Shrieking Shack incident, George is probably far too optimistic about what the Ministry's reaction to Lupin's involvement would have been. He hasn't met Umbridge yet, though, so his opinion of the Ministry is more driven by his father and Percy at this point. As for Dumbledore's reasoning, in this fic, I'm going with a combination of:

1\. Snape and the Marauders had a vicious feud, and Dumbledore – prior to the twins' arrival – tended to believe the Marauders' version more than Snape's for reasons discussed in prior chapters.

2\. Lupin's life would have been ruined. At best, he would likely be expelled from Hogwarts as a danger to the school. At worst, he would have been executed.

3\. Dumbledore likes saving people, and he would rather try to give Sirius a second chance given that the alternative would see him going back to his dark arts-loving, Voldemort-supporting parents.

Why the Runes textbook? Snape chose it because:

1\. Odd combinations of letters would be less obviously a code here.

2\. It was a less obvious choice for him than Potions or Defense.

3\. The dictionary page would be one he would use regularly for class, so even if he was made to forget the need for a code, he would see it sooner or later.

A/N: Please review!


	19. Chapter 19: The Five Stages, Reversed

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 19: The Five Stages, Reversed**

\- November 2, 1976 -

James walked back from the Great Hall after breakfast, for once alone. Remus had gone to the library, and Sirius was in detention. Peter was off on his own, and very secretive he was about it, too. _Maybe he's got himself a girlfriend_ , James thought with a grin. _Should remember to check the Map when I get back up to the dorms._ He turned a corner and nearly walked into Feodor, who was just leaving an empty classroom with his twin.

"Hey, careful there," Feodor said, smiling. He paused, and then glanced at Gustav, who nodded. "Mind if we have a word?"

James shrugged. "Yeah, sure. I was just heading back to the common room, but I guess you can't go there," he said, nodding awkwardly at the Slytherin twin.

"Here should be fine," Feodor said, gesturing back at the empty classroom. The three of them went in, and Gustav began setting up privacy wards."

"What's this about?" James asked, eying the warded door suspiciously.

The twins glanced at one another. Gustav gave a slight shrug, as if indicating that Feodor should speak. James felt increasingly uneasy. "Look, James, we need to talk to you about something. Some of it's going to be good, but a lot of it isn't. We'd like you to listen, even if you don't believe us. There's something we'd like you to do, but then we're going to need you to forget we had this conversation." Feodor reached into his pocket and withdrew a stoppered vial. "Forgetfulness potion. Perfectly safe," he added quickly.

James took a step back. "I don't –"

"Please?" Gustav asked. He sounded pleading.

James sighed and then shrugged. "Fine. Hex me with it."

And the twins talked. They talked about James marrying Lily, about You-Know-Who killing them, about their son Harry surviving, about it ending the war. They talked about how Harry was the youngest seeker in a century, how he fought You-Know-Who as a first year, how he saved their little sister from a basilisk.

And through it all, James listened in silence, his face pale. He believed them. He believed every word of their unbelievable story. He wished he didn't. _Not seers, time travelers. That's how they knew the future._ He had interrupted them only once, when the twins told him about Sirius. "That's bollocks!" he shouted. "He wouldn't! He's my best mate!"

"He's a spy," Feodor said harshly. "You-Know-Who's right hand."

James felt stunned. He could not believe it. And yet . . . . Sirius had nearly gotten Snivellus killed using _Remus_. It would have destroyed Remus's life at best if it had worked. Yes, Sirius claimed he hadn't meant that, but even so . . . . _Could he really be a traitor? Maybe . . . . If he could turn against his family . . . . But they're_ horrible _, anyone decent would . . . . But if he's just like them . . . ._ "Merlin," he breathed. "I'll kill him."

"You can't!" Gustav exclaimed. "You can't change what happens!"

"Why not?" James demanded, fingers itching to grab his wand and hex his so-called best mate to oblivion. _Kill him. Kill him. Kill him._

"Dumbledore said," Feodor explained, not sounding particularly happy about it. "Changing things makes everything worse. Maybe Harry dies, maybe You-Know-Who wins."

"Then why?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Why tell me this if you just want me to forget?"

"Harry's our friend," Feodor said.

"And we thought, well, he'd really love something from you. A letter, we were thinking. It would mean the world to him," Gustav added.

"And maybe there're other people you'd want to write to," Feodor said. "We don't know what happens to everyone, but –"

"– we wanted to give you the chance to say goodbye. We can deliver the letters when we get back."

James nodded, feeling numb. "Right. Sure. Have any parchment?"

Wordlessly, the twins handed him a quill and parchment. James began to write. When he had finally finished, he turned to the twins and asked, voice hollow, "Was there anything else?"

"Actually," Feodor said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a camera, "I just had an idea."

* * *

\- November 11, 1976 -

Peter jumped when Feodor and Gustav Vassilyev approached him after Tuesday's Transfiguration lesson. "Easy there," Feodor said, grinning. Peter relaxed. The twins weren't so bad, not even the Slytherin one. But that made sense. Gustav was a spy, just like he was. Rosier thought _he_ had the better of him, just because he knew Peter's secret and was faster with a wand, but Peter knew better. He would pretend for now – _not just because he threatened me, because I'm not a coward, I'm not_ , Peter told himself – but Rosier would be the one to pay in the end. He could be more clever than Rosier. He just had to wait for the right moment. It would all work out. It had to. _War hero._

If only he could stop jumping whenever anyone came near him, everything would be fine. It wasn't that he was scared, he told himself – _Gryffindors are brave_ – it was just that he was prepared for anything.

"What – what do you want?" Peter asked.

"Er, mind we have a word with you before lunch?" Gustav asked. He jerked his head towards an empty classroom.

Peter hesitated. He did not want to meet anyone alone. Not after being trapped with Rosier. "I'm a bit hungry," he said.

"Come on, Pete, we'll be late for lunch," Sirius called back from where he and James were, a few steps ahead of him.

 _On second thought, maybe eating later won't be so bad._ "I'll join you in a bit," Peter called back. Following the twins to the empty classroom, he asked again, "What do you want?"

Peter flinched as Gustav cast several privacy spells on the room. _They're not like Rosier_ , he reminded himself. _But maybe they heard about it. Maybe they think I've betrayed them, and now they want revenge. What if they don't believe me?_

 _They will. They have to know what happened, that I'm on their side. They're seers!_

"Peter," Feodor said, his voice more gentle than usual. That alone made Peter feel more nervous. "We have something to tell you." And they told him his future.

 _No no no no no._ Peter collapsed onto the floor, hugging himself as he sobbed uncontrollably. "But – but I thought I was – was going to b-be a hero," he choked out.

The twins exchanged awkward glances. Gustav conjured a handkerchief and handed it to Peter. Peter would not meet his eyes. _No no no. I don't want to die._

"You are one," Feodor said at last. "Order of Merlin and everything."

 _Then why do I die?_ Peter continued to sob. "P-please," he begged. "I don't – I don't want to die."

"Merlin, I can't –" one of the twins said, but Peter barely heard him. _No no no no no._

"Do you – do you want to, um, write a letter? To your mum or anyone?" he heard one of them ask.

It took half an hour for Peter to stop crying long enough to write a brief note to his mother, the quill shaking in his unsteady hand.

* * *

\- November 13, 1976 -

"Hey, Bell, isn't it?" Valerie turned around. The two transfer students waved at her.

"Yes," she said suspiciously. "Why?"

"Mind if we talk?" the Slytherin twin asked. "Er, alone?"

 _Merlin, is he going to ask me out?_ Valerie hoped not. She was only just over her breakup with Anmol, and was not ready to date someone else so soon. _Best just to get it over with._ "If you must."

They led her to an empty classroom, and she decided that, no, this was not an attempt to ask her out, not unless some of the less credible rumors about twins were true. When the Slytherin twin began casting privacy spells on the room, she immediately grew uncomfortable. She had heard horror stories about what some of the Slytherin students got up to. Gryffindors weren't so bad, for the most part, but she remembered hearing about what had happened down at the lake after OWLs last term. "I'm leaving," she said, drawing her wand and turning to go.

"Wait, please," the Gryffindor twin said. "Look, we're not going to hurt you." He slowly drew his wand and put it on a nearby table. A moment later, the Slytherin twin did the same. Valerie relaxed and lowered her wand. She did not let go of it, though.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"Are you Adrian Bell's sister?" the Gryffindor asked.

"Yes," she said slowly. "But why do you care?" _Is Adrian in some kind of trouble? But he's not anyone important. He's just a shop assistant at Flourish and Blotts._

"Look, I know this'll be hard to believe, but we want to tell you about something that's going to happen to you. Give you a chance to write a letter to your brother, maybe other people, too."

"Are you threatening me?" Valerie interrupted, raising her wand back up to point at him.

"No!" the Slytherin twin exclaimed. "No, it's nothing like that."

"We just want to give you a chance –" said the Gryffindor.

"I'm leaving," Valerie interrupted again. She began backing towards the door. The Gryffindor twin quickly grabbed his wand from the table, and Valerie cast a quick protégé just in case he tried anything. _Thanks, Professor Lyall, for all the practice._

"Look, all we're asking is that you write a letter to your brother, maybe your parents? Just letting them know you love them," the Slytherin twin said. He was blocking the door, Valerie noticed.

"This is too weird," Valerie said. "Move away from the door and let me go."

"Merlin, you're paranoid," the Gryffindor twin muttered.

"How about this," the Slytherin twin said. "I'll give you my wand. You write the letter, I'll take the wand back. I mean, can it really hurt to tell your family you love them?"

Valerie hesitated. She remembered something Anmol had said, back when they were still dating. "You're in NEWT Divination, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"You See something?" she asked. Anmol had told her Divination was usually fairly untrustworthy, but true prophecies were always identifiable. No one who heard one could ignore it. _Then again, he said that just before he claimed he Saw we were meant to be together, so he was probably full of it._

"You could say that," the Slytherin twin said.

"I could," she agreed, "but that doesn't mean it's true." _Just try getting into the Ravenclaw common room if you can't spot wordplay like that._

"We've seen the future," the Slytherin twin said, more firmly. "And we really think you should write a letter."

"We promise that all we'll do is deliver it, to your brother or anyone else you ask," the Gryffindor twin said.

Valerie considered it. "Fine," she said. "But give me your wand first."

It took ten minutes of arguing and the Gryffindor twin drinking from the vial first for Valerie to agree to drink the forgetfulness potion.

* * *

\- November 16, 1976 -

"Those privacy charms are a bit much, aren't they?" Lily asked Gustav.

"Can't be too careful," Feodor said. Once his brother had finished casting the spells, he launched into what was clearly a well-practiced, if awkward, speech. He did not get very far before Lily was on her feet, wand raised and hair giving off sparks.

"How dare you!" she shouted.

"What –" Gustav began.

"I am _not_ marrying Potter! He's an arrogant, bullying toe rag!"

"But –"

"Did he put you up to this? Of course he did. I really did think better of you two, though," she raged. _That would be_ just _like him. Although he has gotten better this year . . . ._

"Look, Lily, calm down. Please," Feodor said.

"We're not making this up," Gustav added.

"Wish we were, because that's still the good part."

"The good part? The _good part_? What part of that is _good_?" Lily shouted.

"Um, the part where you're happily married?" Gustav asked.

"And have a really wonderful kid who saves the wizarding world?" Feodor added.

Lily blinked. "What?" she asked.

The twins explained, telling her about what her sacrifice meant, about her son, and – when she asked – about her parents and Tuney and Sev. "I'm going to the headmaster," Lily said firmly. "This is too important."

"You can't," Feodor – _no, Fred Weasley, he claims his real name is Fred Weasley_ – said.

"He needs to know!" she protested.

"No, he really doesn't. Dumbledore said so himself," the teen calling himself George Weasley said.

"I'm not going to sit back and just let myself get killed!"

"Not even to save your son?" George asked. Lily turned furiously to him. He held up his hands. "I'm sorry, Lily, but what happened is famous. You sacrificed your life to save him. Whatever happened that night defeated You-Know-Who. You dying . . . without that, maybe . . . ."

"We might lose the war," Fred finished for his twin, whose voice had trailed off.

"I hate you," she whispered, deflating. "Give me that parchment."

Lily wrote, occasionally pausing to ask questions. The twins raised their eyebrows at seeing the fourth envelope. "What?" Lily snapped. "That's your mother's name, isn't it?"

* * *

\- November 28, 1976 -

"So, what did you want?" Alice asked, moving to sit in one of the chairs in the empty classroom. She merely raised her eyebrows as Gustav cast privacy charms on the door.

Alice listened, her eyebrows rising higher and higher the longer the twins spoke. When they had finally finished, she said, "Congratulations. That is the tallest tall tale I've ever been told."

"It's true!" Feodor protested.

Alice snorted. "Really? Frank and I get married – which I'll grant is possible, sure, but so young? And we have a kid in the middle of a war? Are we insane? And points for us naming our kid Neville, nice touch that, giving him my dad's name. But the rest? I mean, you make him sound like a useless lump. Constantly losing his toad – and, seriously, who has a toad? – and forgetting his way back to his common room after how many years? Glad he won the House Cup for you, but only earning five points all year? I didn't know that was even possible. Isn't he good at _anything_?"

The twins winced. "Let's not tell Neville this part," Feodor said.

"No, let's not," Gustav agreed. "But he is good at some stuff," he added.

"Like what?"

"Herbology," Feodor said. "I overheard Sprout telling Moody about it. And, um," he hesitated. "Look, we don't know him too well, since he's two years behind us, but . . . ."

"He was great with that boggart," Gustav jumped in. Grinning, he told Alice, "It turned into Snape, and Neville stuck him in his grandmother's clothes! It was all over the school. Wish I'd seen it."

"His boggart is Snape?" Alice asked incredulously. "Severus Snape? The same Severus Snape who's in our class?"

"Yeah," Feodor said. "He teaches Potions in our time. Not a very popular professor."

Alice shook her head. "And he's my imaginary son's boggart?"

"He's not imaginary!"

"Of course not," Alice agreed sarcastically. "So what was this all about, really? Some sort of bet about how much nonsense I could swallow? I'm not mad or anything, and I don't mind playing along if you need me to."

"No, we really meant it," Gustav said. "Even if you don't believe us, though, would you mind writing Neville a letter? He really is a good kid."

"Loyal to his friends," Feodor added. "And you can tell he tries hard."

"Very Hufflepuff of him," Gustav said.

Alice shook her head. "I still think you're taking the mickey, but whatever. I'll write you that letter. You owe me, though."

"You're forgetting about the forgetfulness potion," Feodor said.

Alice snorted. "Remind me why I'm friends with you? Can't I just pretend this conversation never happened?"

"Alice –"

"Oh, fine," she said, sighing. "But you now owe me twice. _I_ might not remember, but _you_ will. I'm trusting you to remember that."

* * *

A/N:

The chapter title refers to the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

I hope you don't hate Alice for this chapter, but her reaction is largely based on what the twins know about Neville. Unfortunately for him, that basically consists of "really nice kid, but clumsy, forgetful, and not very good at magic." Yes, Neville gets a major boost by the end of OotP, but this is still Neville from early GoF.

Please review!


	20. Chapter 20: Christmas

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 20: Christmas**

\- December 20, 1976 -

"And Potter has the quaffle. He passes it to O'Brien, who passes it back to Potter, who . . . yes, he scores! Gryffindor leads fifty points to twenty." The mass of supporters clad in red and gold cheered. "And now Higgs has the quaffle. Oh, no, he drops it, courtesy of a bludger from Longbottom. Potter catches it and – he scores again!"

Fred, cheering along with his Housemates, lowered his camera. _Harry will love this,_ he thought. _Neville, too. Who knew his dad was such a good beater?_

An hour later, the Hufflepuff chaser managed to catch the snitch, but it hardly mattered. Gryffindor was over two hundred points ahead. "Party in the common room!" Black shouted happily, clapping James good-naturedly on the back.

"The Quidditch Cup will be ours again this year!" Mary Macdonald crowed on the way back to the common room, before pushing Black against the wall and snogging him in the corridor. A few other students hooted and cat-called.

"I sincerely hope so. I am quite fond of seeing it in my office," Professor McGonagall said briskly, passing them on her own way back from the game. "And do try for some decorum, Miss Macdonald."

"Sorry, Professor," Mary said, blushing but not looking particularly repentant.

"Hmmm," McGonagall said. "Well, I shall not keep you any longer. Do try not to stay up too late, though. The train does leave early tomorrow, and I doubt your families will be pleased if you missed it."

* * *

While Fred enjoyed the party in the Gryffindor dorms, George sat in the Slytherin common room trying – not for the first time – to transfigure his quill into a diamond. He had decided last month that this would be his Christmas present for Fred, but here he was, five days before Christmas, and he still could not manage it.

Frustrated, he looked around the common room. A few other students were there, reading or playing wizards' chess, but most were in their dorm rooms packing for the holidays. His eyes fell on Snape, who had taken over a larger corner of the room with four cauldrons, each of which seemed to contain a different potion. George sighed. Ever since that mind reading spell, he had mostly managed to avoid interactions with Snape beyond the bare minimum required for lessons and sharing a dormitory, but . . . . _Needs must. And it's not like there's anyone else I can, not with curfew and the holidays starting tomorrow._

"Oi, Snape," he called. "You have a minute?"

Snape's black eyes snapped up to meet his. "Do I look like I have a minute, Vassilyev?" he asked, carefully adding some monkfish eyes to a yellowish potion.

George walked over and plopped himself into a chair next to one of the cauldrons. "I've got a question on magical theory, and I'm betting you can answer it for me."

"Do I look like a library?" Snape snapped. "I'm busy."

George fished into a pocket and pulled out two sickles. "I can pay," he said. Snape's eyes gleamed hungrily, and George knew that he had picked the right incentive. Two sickles could not even buy one canary cream, and yet Snape sold his homework help for far less. _Which really makes no sense, unless he has no grasp of finances whatsoever, or he has some other reason for keeping his prices so low._

"What's your question?" Snape asked.

"Remember our first Transfiguration lesson this year? You talked about cognitive dissidence –"

"Dissonance," Snape corrected.

George waved a hand. "Whatever. And that's why we can't make gold and food and such, but we can make stuff that we sell for gold or that can become food. Or something like that. Anyway, I've been trying to transfigure this quill into a diamond, but I can't seem to manage it. Closest I've gotten is glass. So I'm asking you."

"You thinking of proposing to someone, Vassilyev?" Snape asked, raising an eyebrow.

George choked. "No," he said. "No, it doesn't even really have to be a diamond. Could be a ruby or an emerald or something."

"And you want me to transfigure it for you?"

George considered that. _No, better to figure out how to do it myself, so I can make loads of them._ "No, to figure out what I'm doing wrong."

Snape shrugged and stirred a dark red potion. George thought it might be blood replenisher, and he remembered with a pang of unease the reason Snape probably needed it. "Show me," he demanded.

George rolled his eyes. "Of course, your highness." For some reason, that caused Snape to smirk. _Nutter_. Focusing, George pointed his wand at the quill and tried once again to transfigure it into a diamond. And, once again, he failed. The quill remained stubbornly feathered.

Snape nodded, as if he had expected that result. "You are thinking too hard about it," he declared. "You are linking diamonds to wealth directly in your mind, which prevents the transfiguration from taking hold."

 _Damn it, did he just read my mind again?_ "How can you tell that's the problem?"

"Unlike some people, I have eyes and a functioning brain," Snape retorted.

"Bully for you," George said sarcastically. "So what do I do?"

"Make yourself believe that diamonds are merely concentrated coal."

"Confundus?" George asked.

Snape shook his head. "No, that would not affect your base understanding of reality."

"How, then?"

"Diamonds are essentially coal, put under pressure," Snape said slowly, as if talking to an idiot." He shrugged. "Believe it. Internalize it."

"Wait, really?" George asked. "You're not just having me on?"

"I would despair of your intelligence if my opinion of it were not already so abysmally low as to be non-existent," Snape sneered, stirring in another ingredient. " _Yes_ , Vassilyev, diamonds are, in fact, overpriced bits of coal."

"But very shiny bits," Jezebel Flourish interjected from across the room. She was admiring the large diamond on her own finger as she said it.

"I'm not giving my brother coal for Christmas!" George spluttered.

"Not my problem," Snape said. He held out his hand, presumably for his payment.

George frowned. _Might as well try it._ He tried to imagine that diamonds were what Snape claimed. He waved his wand. His quill turned into a lump of coal, and he swore. "Can't be bloody done," he muttered.

"Give me those sickles, and I'll do it," Snape snapped.

"Fine. But if you can't, you do my homework for a month. _All_ of my homework, mind."

"Agreed," Snape said. He drew his wand and tapped it against the coal-that-used-to-be-a-quill. It promptly turned into a gobstone-sized diamond. George whistled. Wordlessly, he handed Snape the two sickles. He would get far more once he sold the diamond.

"You won't be able to sell it, you know," Flourish said, still admiring her ring.

"Can everyone here bloody read my mind?" George asked. "And why not?"

"Transfigured objects are worthless for enchanting or potions," she said. "Edwin's corollary to Gamp's Laws. Besides, anyone with sense will finite it before buying."

"Damn," George said. _Now what'll I get Fred for Christmas?_ He looked back at Snape, who had returned to his brewing. "Wait," he said slowly. "If that's true, how could that transfigured gold have messed up Spain like you said?"

"Use your brain, Vassilyev," Snape said, not even bothering to look up. "The gold could not be restored to its original form because it was believed to _be_ gold. Gamp's Law affects both transfiguring things _into_ currency and _from_ currency. Only someone who did not consider it to be wealth could restore it."

George shook his head and took out another sickle, offering it to Snape. "A month of Potions homework to _E_ quality for my brother."

Snape took the sickle. "Agreed."

* * *

\- December 25, 1976 -

Very few students had decided to stay over the Christmas holidays. Gryffindor was the best represented, with four students remaining in the castle: a stressed seventh year studying for his NEWTs, a bored second year whose parents had to go to Algeria on business, Lily Evans who was staying for some reason related to her sister – she merely huffed and rolled her eyes as "Tuney's antics" when asked – and Fred. _It's nice, though_ , Fred decided, _at least mostly._ He was able to see a lot more of George with the other students away and no classes to take up their time. _Wish the professors wouldn't bother with curfew, or that they'd let us hang out in the same common room._

It was strange, though, waking up on Christmas morning not to see George grinning at him, not to see a lumpy package at the foot of his bed, knowing that Mum had made him a new sweater. He had gotten a few presents – a giant pile of Droobles Best Blowing Gum from Alice, a huge book of jokes from the Marauders (who, the accompanying note read, had all pitched in to get it) – Fred immediately decided that the book would be Harry's as soon as they got back – and a note from George saying that his Christmas present would be a month without Potions homework, courtesy of Snape.

After breakfast in the nearly deserted Great Hall, Fred and George headed outside for their annual Christmas snowball fight. Fred charmed his snowballs bright pink, and each time they connected, they showered George with sparkling pink glitter. His twin retaliated by making his snowballs explode into sticky green slime whenever they hit him.

"There you are," a deep voice called, startling Fred, who dropped a snowball on his boot, coating it with glitter.

"Snape," Fred greeted without enthusiasm, wishing he had not just dropped his snowball so he could instead lob it at him. Even forgetting what a miserable git he was as a professor, Fred hated him for what he had done to George.

"I need your blood," Snape said.

"Not bloody likely!" Fred retorted, reaching for his wand.

Snape somehow gave the impression of rolling his eyes without actually doing it. "For your project," he sneered. "In case one of you were to be captured by the Dark Lord."

George blinked. "You're still working on that?" he asked, surprised. Fred privately agreed; he had doubted Snape would keep that promise, given how unenthusiastic he had been. _But if he did, and if it's something that'd work, maybe we won't have to trick Black into an Unbreakable Vow after all._

"No," Snape snapped. "I have finished it. Or I will have, as soon as you donate some of your blood. I only require two drops apiece."

"What did you come up with?"

Snape reached into a pocket and pulled out two silver rings. George whistled. "Where'd you get those?" he asked.

"Melted down a sickle," Snape spat. George's ears turned pink. Fred wondered what that was about. "These are similar to portkeys," Snape continued. "Unlike conventional portkeys, however, they are paired with one another. At any point, you will be able to activate your ring to take you to its mate. Moreover, should either become injured, your rings will heat. Should that occur, you can summon your twin to you, rather than bring yourself to your twin, provided that you are each wearing your ring."

Fred felt a surge of disappointment. That would not solve their Sirius Black problem. Still, it was a nice piece of magic, assuming Snape was telling the truth.

"Thanks," George said. "But why do you need our blood?"

"Identical twins are particularly potent for blood magic," Snape replied. Fred could practically hear the unspoken _you incompetent dunderhead_. "Only a bond that powerful would have a chance of bypassing potent dark wards."

"You said blood magic is dark," George said slowly.

"Do you want them or not?" Snape snapped.

"We'll take them," Fred said quickly. George frowned. "Better safe than sorry," he said.

"Place one drop of blood on each ring," Snape instructed, handing them the rings. Fred could see tiny runes etched into them.

"Right," George said. "Thanks."

* * *

The House tables were gone when the twins returned to the Great Hall for supper that evening. Instead, one long table was set up in the center of the room. A few of the other students who had remained in the castle for the holidays were already seated there, along with about half of the professors. Dumbledore was chuckling at something Flitwick said when then entered, but then frowned slightly before beckoning the twins over. "Welcome, gentlemen," he called. "As there are so few of us, we decided to do away with the House tables for supper today." From the unusual lack of twinkle in his eyes, George suspected he was regretting that decision. _Because of us? Maybe he's worried we'll let something else slip._

"Thanks, sir," George said. He made his way to a seat farther down the table, near where an unfamiliar Hufflepuff girl sat, a third or fourth year by the look of her. She squeaked when she saw a Slytherin sit down next to her. Fred sat beside him a moment later, and George noticed Dumbledore relax slightly.

"I can't accept it," a girl's voice said, loudly and firmly. George turned to see Lily Evans trying to hand a small box to Snape.

"Lily, please –"

"I'm sorry, Se-Snape. But we're not friends. Not anymore. It's not right for me to take this."

"But –"

"Miss Evans, Mister Snape," Dumbledore called out. "Is something the matter?" Neither student looked happy. Snape had still not taken the box back, and he looked utterly dejected that Lily was trying to return what was presumably his gift to her. For her part, Lily was red-faced and obviously frustrated. George wondered how long they had been arguing.

Lily bit her lip. "No, sir," she said softly. She glared at Snape before marching over to the table and sitting between a Ravenclaw seventh year and Professor Flitwick. Snape slumped, either in relief or defeat – George could not tell which – and slunk over to an empty seat, as far as possible from everyone else.

They were midway through dinner when it happened. George had just taken a bite of the excellent roast when he heard the sound of metal hitting stone. He turned to see Snape's head jerked backwards, his silverware fallen to the floor. Blood trickled from his nose onto his potatoes. His entire body began to convulse. "Mister Snape!" McGonagall cried out. He did not respond.

Pomfrey, slightly pink after several glasses of Christmas wine, rushed over to him, her wand out. "What in Merlin's name?" she murmured. More loudly, she ordered, "Help me get him to the hospital wing."

* * *

"He's stable for now," Poppy said softly, "but I'm not certain for how long."

"What is ailing him?" Albus asked, looking down at the face of the most difficult of his current students, the boy who would someday become his left hand.

"His body is shutting down, Albus," the nurse said. "But it's not just that. In the last half hour, two of his ribs have cracked." At his inquiring look, she explained. "They weren't cracked when he collapsed at dinner."

"Perhaps the spell he cast on young Peter Pettigrew?" Albus suggested, but she shook her head.

"That was my first thought, too," she said. "But you eventually got the counter for that from him, and I made sure to learn it just in case he used it again. Besides, it's not just the obvious injuries. His organs are failing, too. His liver looks like it's been dying for a while now - weeks, maybe months - but his other organs are going, too. And I can't find any reason for it, but they seem to be getting worse, and quickly."

Albus studied the boy lying unconscious on the hospital bed in front of him. He saw the sallow cast to Snape's skin. Looking back, he vaguely recalled a yellow tinge to the eyes when he had obliviated the boy last month. "Jaundice," he said softly. "Oh, my poor boy."

"I don't know what else I can do," Poppy fretted. "This is beyond me, Albus. I can't even heal the existing damage, let along tell what's causing it. Maybe Saint Mungo's would know."

The Severus Snape from Feodor Vassilyev's memories was also sallow skinned, Albus reflected heavily. _Was that his natural skin tone, or the result of this liver damage?_ "Perhaps," he said. "But before we contact the healers there, I would like a word with Miss Evans. She was with him before dinner, and may be able to shine a light on what has happened."

Miss Evans, it transpired, did not know what afflicted Snape. She bit her lip as she stared down at her estranged friend. "I'll keep the bracelet," she whispered. "Look, I'm wearing it now. Just wake up, Sev. Please."

Albus saw a glint of silver on her wrist. "May I?" he asked. Evans raised her arm, showing him a thin silver charms bracelet, etched with tiny runes. Then Albus blinked. "My goodness," he said, "but that is impressive." Snape must have shrunken half a dozen potions vials and attached them to a thin silver bracelet, disguising them as decorative charms, where doubtless they would be overlooked by any search. _And unless I am very much mistaken, those are portkey runes etched onto the band. To Saint Mungo's, if I am reading them correctly. Obliviated as to the future, but learning of a threat to her some other way? From your dormmates who target muggleborns, perhaps? Or am I reading too much into the situation?_

"What?" she asked, choking back a sob.

"Li-ly," Snape murmured from where he lay.

"Sev!"

"Mister Snape," Albus said, turning back to the boy. "Do you know what has been done to you?"

But the boy was again silent and asleep.

* * *

Lily Evans was dozing beside Snape's bedside when Minerva entered the infirmary, looking grim. Even Poppy had not insisted that Snape be left alone, not on Christmas, not with him scheduled to be moved to Saint Mungo's before dawn.

Minerva handed a note to Albus. He scanned it and sighed. _It appears that E_ _ileen Snape died this afternoon in a muggle automobile accident. Her husband was injured, and the muggle healers treating him were baffled by his condition due to "spontaneous healing." Ministry obliviators had to be called in, and they found traces of blood magic._ "Blood rituals," Minerva hissed angrily, giving the impression of an angry cat. "The boy has been casting blood magic, here, at Hogwarts. He should be expelled!"

"He was, I suspect, acting with the best of intentions, Minerva," Albus replied softly. "Rowena Ravenclaw herself is said to have used what I suspect is a variant of this very ritual to protect her daughter." _But to reverse it, to protect the parents rather than the child . . . . The ritual never meant for one to take on the role of two. It is a miracle the boy has managed it. And to have it fail now, on Christmas . . . . Was this what he meant, before I obliviated him? Eileen Snape, rather than Lily Evans? Did he learn that his mother would soon die? Could he even have gone through with the ritual in that time? He might have had long enough, perhaps, before young Gustav came to me to confess._

"It was outlawed for a reason, Albus!"

"I do not disagree. But people go to enormous lengths to protect their loved ones, and, alas, it appears that young Mister Snape was less misguided in his intentions than might be hoped. While no child should feel compelled to sacrifice himself for the adults around him, we cannot overlook that he may indeed have saved his father's life, if not his mother's." _I would have done as much for my mother, or for Ariana, if I had had any inkling of what was to come. I changed the timeline to save Aberforth's mere_ limb _, not recognizing the cost until too late._ "Besides, surely he has suffered enough. I believe I can now cancel his working. He should be able to recover then. Remind me to thank Alastor for keeping an eye on the situation."

Lost in his thoughts, Albus did not notice Lily Evans still as she took in every word he said.

* * *

\- December 26, 1976 -

"I am truly sorry," Dumbledore said to the twins. "I had indeed hoped to avoid this, but Mister Snape's condition requires it."

"What do you mean?" Fred asked, although he feared he could guess. _But we still need a way to stop Black!_

The headmaster sighed. "I had hoped at first that your future knowledge could be contained. Later, it seemed clear to me that your presence created a paradox. Certain future actions of mine were only explicable if I knew they were required, you see." Fred and George exchanged glances. "But now . . . . I fear Mister Snape has caused himself irrevocable harm with his actions, actions which, I fear, were prompted by your presence." Dumbledore raised a hand to forestall their objections. "I do not believe for an instant that you meant for this to occur, but the fact remains. As such, I am afraid that you will need to remain here, in isolation, for the remainder of your stay in this time."

* * *

A/N:

The diamond bit was in part intended to make the wizarding economy at least make _some_ sense. If you can transfigure anything (or nearly anything) easily, why not transfigure all of your potions ingredients from something inexpensive? Of course, selling diamonds in the muggle world could work perfectly well as a "get rich quick" scheme, assuming there aren't Ministry / goblin / other barriers in place.

Lily's bracelet is simple – Snape knows her life is in danger, and the bracelet is a backup plan in case his joining the Death Eaters fails. It also touches upon a bit of my personal headcanon, which is that each of Snape's ten thousand buttons is actually a miniaturized potions vial meant to be overlooked in a search but accessible in an emergency.

There will be one more chapter after this. It's already written but still needs to be edited. I'll try to post it before next week.

Please review!


	21. Epilogue: The Less Things Change

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

 **Epilogue: The Less Things Change**

\- January 4, 1977 -

"You can't mean that, Sev!" Lily shouted. Severus was still confined to the hospital wing, and although he was looking far better than he had on Christmas, she had overheard Madam Pomfrey saying that not all of the damage could be fully healed. Just because it was a blood ritual meant for protection didn't mean it wasn't still dark magic, and damage caused by the dark arts never fully healed. _Maybe he'll believe me_ now _about messing with_ them. She rubbed the silver bracelet he had made for her absently. "How can you even say something like that?"

"It's not – Lily, I – you don't –" Severus spluttered, tripping over his tongue as he tried to explain.

"No," Lily said firmly. "It's just the same as ever. I don't know why I thought you'd changed. If you can say that the _wrong one_ died. . . . I can't – I just can't deal with that sort of thing. Not again. Not anymore."

"You don't understand!" Severus protested, struggling to rise from where he lay. "I –"

Lily felt suddenly guilty. His mother was _dead_. It was only natural to resent the survivor, wasn't it? Before she could say anything, though, Madam Pomfrey bustled over and threw her out of the hospital wing for disturbing her patient. _I'll apologize the next time I see him_.

But when she next saw him, he was with Mulciber and Avery, who were laughing about a hex cast on Mary, causing feathers to sprout from her nose. Lily turned and stomped away in disgust.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. She never found the right time to apologize, and, as time passed, as Severus spent more and more time with people she was certain were junior Death Eaters, she convinced herself that she no longer wanted to.

But she continued to wear her bracelet.

* * *

\- January 20, 1977 -

"They still there?" James asked.

"Yes, just around the corner and down the hall, same as before," Sirius said, checking the Map.

"Okay, time to break them out," James said. "Five hundredth time's the charm, right?"

Sirius snorted. "Sure."

"They've been in that room since we got back," James said, annoyed. "That's over two weeks. McGonagall says they've gone home, but they're clearly in some sort of trouble. Wormtail tried, but even he couldn't get in. So, yeah, time to try again. We're the Marauders. We don't just give up."

Sirius held up his hands in faux surrender. "Did you hear me arguing with you?" he asked.

James gave a sheepish, apologetic grin. "Sorry." He ran his fingers through his mess of black hair absently. "You know how I can get."

Sirius shrugged. "Whatever you say, Prongs." He frowned. "Wait, where'd they go?"

"What?"

"Their dots. They're gone." They were so focused on trying to find the twins' names again on the Map that they noticed Filch's approaching dot too late. "Mischief managed," Sirius said hurriedly, tapping his wand to clear it.

"What is that you have there?" Filch demanded.

* * *

\- March 28, 1977 -

Wordlessly, Severus added his name to the list of students staying behind for the Easter holidays before angrily stalking off to the dormitory to be alone. A few short months ago, he had been eagerly awaiting the Easter holidays. Now, it no longer mattered. He had failed.

 _I was going to do so much. I just had to wait until I was of age, and then I could go back home and fix everything. Cure Tobias of his drinking, get him a job even if had to confund someone to hire him. Mum said he wasn't bad before the drink, back when he still worked at the mill, and she'd never leave him. And look what that got her. Killed, killed because she was too stupid and soft-hearted to get rid of him, even after he beat her._

Severus briefly considered going back, just to put up muggle-repelling charms on the house. _Keep the bastard out. It's his fault, anyway. If he hadn't been passed out at the pub, she'd never have had to go bring him back home. And then they'd never have gotten hit by that car._ But he could put up wards in the summer, and – if he was lucky – his father would have drunk himself to death by then anyway, and he would never have to see the miserable excuse for a human being ever again.

 _And if he dies on his own, then I won't have to kill him_ , Severus thought, looking down at his hands.

 _If I'd gone home for Christmas, even if I weren't of age yet, maybe I could have saved her._

* * *

\- April 2, 1978 -

"Anything interesting in the _Prophet_?" Sirius asked at breakfast.

"Just the usual. Deaths, disappearances," Remus said absently, turning the page. "Oh!" he exclaimed.

"What?" James asked at once, looking anxious.

"Nothing bad," Remus reassured him. "Just a small announcement under births. Right there, near the bottom, under Aethelred Uckbert."

"That's a terrible name to get stuck with," Sirius said, "but so what?"

"No, it's the ones beneath," Peter said, pointing at the paper. Just below Aethelred were the names _Frederick Weasley_ and _George Weasley_. He and the other Marauders exchanged glances. _The twins weren't seers. They were from the future, somehow._ Peter absently rubbed his left forearm.

* * *

\- March 23, 1980 -

Curses flew across the battlefield. Lily unshrunk the blood replenishing potion and forced Auror Longbottom to swallow. She heard a shout from behind her. Turning, she saw James running towards her, You-Know-Who in pursuit. As if in slow motion, she saw You-Know-Who point his wand in their direction, whether to curse her or James or Longbottom, she couldn't tell. Grabbing James's wrist and Longbottom's shoulder, she activated the portkey on her bracelet, arriving safely in the lobby of Saint Mungo's before the green light hit.

It was the third time they defied him.

* * *

\- August 8, 1980 -

"I shall consider it," the Dark Lord informed him. Severus bowed his head lower in gratitude, even as his heart sank. Consideration was not the same as a promise. Lily was in danger, and he had unwittingly put her there.

And so the next day he found himself kneeling on a wind-swept hill before Albus Dumbledore, who had obliviated him once before when he had tried to save Lily, who might do so again. Or perhaps he would do worse, now, as Severus was now an enemy and longer a student nominally under his protection. Therefore, when the fearsome headmaster asked for his price rather than simply removing his memories, Severus wondered where he had gone wrong before. Hoping not to repeat his mistake, he promised, "Anything."

He knew he had said the right words, for Albus Dumbledore left him with his life, his freedom, and his memories. And although the headmaster had refused him the Defense position only a few days before, now he offered Potions and Head of Slytherin.

* * *

\- October 25, 1981 -

"I think Pete should be secret keeper," Sirius said suddenly.

"What?" James asked. "Why?"

"Everyone'll think it's me, right?" Sirius asked. _And it won't be, not this time. I don't know what future they came from, but this one'll be better._ "They won't ever guess Wormtail. Perfect decoy," he added. _And this way I can't possibly betray you, Prongs._

"But, Padfoot, do you really think he's up for that? I'm not saying he's a coward," James added hastily, "but he's a bit, you know, nervous."

"He's a war hero," Sirius said stoutly.

James looked suddenly startled, as if he had forgotten. _Lucky you_ , Sirius thought darkly. _Wish I could._ "And I'm the father of the Boy-Who-Lived," he said slowly. "Alright, if you're sure, and if Wormtail agrees. And Lily, of course. I need to talk to her about something anyway, now I think about it."

* * *

\- October 26, 1981 -

James had argued against the ritual for months. Lily had no idea why he had finally changed his mind, and it worried her. But she was desperate. Dumbledore had said that his mysterious spy was convinced that You-Know-Who was after them in particular, after _Harry_ , and that his spy was paranoid about something happening to them on Halloween. Lily would do anything to save her baby, even blood magic. Sev had been right after all. No sacrifice was too much, not if it meant that the _right one_ lived.

* * *

\- October 31, 1981 -

James did not reach for his wand. He knew that Voldemort would kill him, and he hoped that the time his death bought would be enough for Lily to escape with Harry. He had felt the anti-disapparation and anti-portkey spells, though, and he knew that his brave, beautiful, brilliant Lily could not use her bracelet to save her this time. _I'm the father of the Boy-Who-Lived_ , James reminded himself. _Harry will live. Lily's ritual will work._

And so when Voldemort raised his wand to cast the killing curse, James did not even try to dodge. _I accept my death so that my son will live._

And when Lily, too, gave her life to save her son, the final step of the blood ritual activated. Life of the father, willingly given. Life of the mother, willingly given. Together, they would save their son.

* * *

\- November 4, 1981 -

Peter knew where he had to go. Sirius had been arrested, but the situation was still too unstable. _If they give him a trial, if they give him veritaserum, they will know. I'll be safe with the Weasleys. The twins said their brother had a pet rat. It's only for a little while, until I find something better, until I know I'll be safe._

* * *

\- October 30, 1994 -

"Welcome back," Dumbledore said.

Fred blinked and looked around. He was in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was a few feet away, casting a diagnostic on George, whose hair and eyebrows were restored to their proper Weasley red.

"It's –" Fred began.

"October 30, 1994," Dumbledore finished. "A little past three in the afternoon."

"Oh," Fred said. He felt vaguely disappointed. He and George had only needed a few more days in the past, and then they would have been of age, old enough to enter the Tournament. He patted his robes, and then looked up, frantic.

"Not to worry, my boy," Dumbledore said. "Your letters and other souvenirs of your trip are right here." He handed them over. "Any may I say, I am impressed and humbled by seeing these. If these are what I believe them to be, they are worth more than any House points I can offer. Even so, please take one hundred points apiece for Gryffindor. Once Madam Pomfrey clears you to leave, I will let you deliver them. If I may, though, please accept these as well." He handed Fred a few sheets of parchment with the same brief note on each, attesting that Fred and George had indeed travelled through time, and that the letters were genuine.

* * *

"What's this?" Harry asked, looking up from the chess game that Ron was playing against Hermione.

"I know this'll be hard to believe –" Fred began.

"– but we swear it's real," George finished. He handed Harry a small package. Tentatively, not really trusting the twins, he opened it. Inside was a book, several photographs, and two letters. A short note from Dumbledore lay on top. Harry read it, frowning.

"This is real?" he asked. "Really real?"

The twins nodded, and Harry, swallowing heavily, stared at the photographs. There was his mum, sitting in Potions. There was his dad, scoring a goal against Hufflepuff. And there was – "Prongs," Harry whispered, astounded. The twins had somehow gotten him a picture of James Potter transforming into a stag, in the middle of what looked like an empty classroom. "How?" Harry whispered.

"It's a long story," Fred said.

"But you haven't even seen the best part," George added, pointing at the two unopened envelopes. With trembling fingers, Harry opened the first letter.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _What is a bloke supposed to write in a letter like this? You haven't even been born yet. Merlin, but I haven't even gotten Evans to agree to out with me yet. Guess she does agree at some point, though, which is good to hear._

 _Where to start? Well, let's start with me meeting your mum. I met her on the Hogwarts Express, and knew immediately that she was something special . . . ._

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I hope you never get this letter, because that means the twins lied. If they were telling me the truth, though, then I want you to know two things._

 _First, I obviously loved you more than anything in the world. Always remember that. You were loved. You_ _are_ _loved. Forever and always._

 _Second, I died so that you could live. That means that every time you risk your life, you are saying that I died for nothing. As glad I am that you saved Ginny Weasley from a basilisk (and, really, a basilisk in a school?),_ _you should not have gone there_ _. It is not your job to save anyone else. It is your job to_ _live_ _. If you do nothing else for me, do that._

 _The twins tell me that you're best friends with their brother, and that Petunia is horrid to you. I hope they're wrong about that, too (my sister, I mean, not their brother). But just in case, let this be accepted as my last will and testament, overriding any others that I write later in life in respect to your guardianship and only that (not whatever money I have or anything else). You can choose from among any of the following legal guardians: my sister Petunia, my parents (if they're still alive), or Molly and Arthur Weasley. I've written a letter to the two of them, thanking them for looking after you, and . . . ._

* * *

 _Dear Neville,_

 _Apparently, I'm your mother. I know, I doubt it, too. I'm also supposedly dead. Feodor and Gustav – sorry, "Fred and George" – aren't sure what happens to me. Maybe I died when you're a baby, maybe I caught dragon pox a week before you went off to school. I hope I'm actually off on some dangerous secret mission to an exotic country or – better yet (and far more likely, knowing the twins) – this is a prank and I'm perfectly healthy and happy and alive, and I'm well on my way to becoming Head Auror._

 _I have no idea what a person is supposed to write to their son who won't even be born for several years, so I'll go with the basics. My name is Alice Talbott, and my favorite subjects are Defense and Charms. I hate Transfiguration, but need to take it to become an auror. My favorite flowers are tulips, and . . . ._

"What – what was she like?" Neville asked, tears streaming unheeded down his cheeks.

"She was brilliant," George said.

* * *

The twins had one last letter to deliver in person. They considered sending it by owl, like they had for the ones to their mum and the others to those outside Hogwarts. But, in the end, they made their way down to the Slytherin dungeons and knocked on the door to Snape's office.

"Enter," called Snape's voice from inside. George pushed open the door, and the twins entered. Snape looked up from a stack of papers he was grading. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"We have a letter for you," George said, wondering how the professor would react. He tentatively reached out to hand it to Snape, whose sallow skin suddenly paled as he stared at George's hand. George glanced down, and realized that the professor was looking at the small silver ring on his little finger.

"Vassilyev," Snape hissed.

"Professor," George said. Cheekily, he added, "You still owe Fred a month of Potions homework."

"Detention, Weasley," Snape snapped. He snatched the letter, but then froze upon seeing the handwriting on the envelope. Slowly, reverently, he opened it. He stared at it for a long, long time. George hesitated before turning to join Fred outside. Just before they left, he could just barely hear Snape murmur, voice soft yet full of wonder, "She forgave me . . . ."

* * *

Later that day, a Hogwarts owl delivered two letters to the Burrow. Molly Weasley broke down in tears at seeing the first. Even after all these years, there was no mistaking the handwriting of her dead brothers.

* * *

That night, three former Death Eaters paid visits to the Goblet of Fire. One came with all his students as, one by one, they submitted their names to the Goblet. One came alone in the dead of night, thinking of debts owed and repaid, and tossed in two scraps of parchment. And one waited, invisible, until all the rest were gone, to confund the ancient artifact and add a name under a fourth school.

* * *

\- October 31, 1994 -

Fred and George plopped themselves next to Angelina at the Gryffindor table. "Good luck!" Fred told her.

"Yeah, if it can't be us, hope it's you!" George added.

"Thanks!" she said, smiling. "You two looked good with those beards. Very distinguished."

"We'll consider it –" George said.

"– in a few decades or so," Fred finished, still disappointed that the aging potion they brewed that morning had failed to trick Dumbledore's age line. He caught sight of Harry and Neville, who were sitting quietly next to each other at the far end of the table. "Think they're okay?" he asked George, jerking his head in their direction.

George stood up to get a better look. "Seems like. They're smiling at that photo of their mums in Potions."

Dumbledore stood up. "And now, I believe the Goblet of Fire is about to make its decision."

The Great Hall fell silent. Cheers rang out as Dumbledore called first the Durmstrang and then the Beaubatons champion. Beside them, Angelina was shaking slightly with excitement. "And the champion from Hogwarts is . . . ." There was a long pause as Dumbledore's face flickered with shock for an instant before once again growing calm. "George Weasley!"

 _The less things change, the less they stay the same._

* * *

A/N:

The is the end of Crossing Lines. I leave the rest to your imagination. Will Lily's letter be enough to let Harry leave the Dursleys? Will it affect his "saving people thing"? Will he and Neville grow closer? Will Snape's self-loathing be affected by Lily's forgiveness? Will George die in Cedric's place, or will the ring Snape made save him?

Please review!


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